The Number File

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The quiet of the ferry ride to Hamilton was shattered by the sound of the ferry crunching against the dock. After the brothers left the boat, they walked the three blocks to the moped rental place.

  The bikes were all the same—squat-looking scooters with small, fat wheels—so the choice was easy. Frank handed the burly attendant his father's credit card, which had been given to him for emergencies.

  "I'm sorry," the salesman said after making a phone call. "I cannot allow you to have the bikes. Your credit card is more than three thousand dollars over the limit, and I've been instructed to cut up your card."

  "We haven't spent anywhere near that much!" Frank stared at the man.

  "You can't destroy our card," Joe said, leaning into the counter as if he'd push his way right through it. "And you've got to give us those bikes."

  "Sorry, chum," the attendant repeated in his flawless British accent. "You must take it up with the credit card company."

  "The card!" Joe demanded, his hand stretched out.

  "Take it easy," Frank cautioned. "It's not his fault."

  "Yeah, well it's not our fault, either, and why should — "

  "Come on, Joe," Frank said, interrupting him and grabbing him by the arm. "We'll straighten this out later. It's getting late and we still have to see the police."

  Frank and Joe walked through the narrow two-lane streets and watched as the shops were beginning to close. When they were two blocks from the station, they heard the sound of a car behind them picking up speed. A maroon sedan shot past them, then screeched to a halt, its red brake lights flashing on. Then, the two clear backup lights came on as the car roared back to them.

  Two large, well-dressed men jumped out of the car and approached them. One of them, a tall black man wearing a conservative pinstriped suit, pulled back his coat to reveal a gun tucked into his belt. The other man, shorter, opened his dark blue suit and drew a small revolver from a shoulder holster.

  "Just hold it right there," he said. "Don't do anything stupid."

  The blue suit stood in front of the Hardys as the tall man with the hat walked behind them. Joe, standing in front of Frank, could hear the click-clack as the tall man snapped handcuffs on Frank's bare wrists. Two more clicks and Joe, too, was handcuffed. Finally the tall man spoke: "You're under arrest for fraud, conspiracy to defraud, and credit card counterfeiting."

  Chapter 3

  "COUNTERFEITING! WHAT'RE YOU talking about?" Joe turned his head back and forth between the two men.

  "Who are you?" Frank asked.

  Blue suit holstered his gun with one hand as he reached into his back pocket with the other. "I'm Bill Baylis," he said as he produced identification. "And this is Walt Conway. I'm from the Interagency Banking Commission, and Detective Conway is with the Bermuda police, assigned to work with me."

  "We happened to see you leaving Bernhard Kruger's," the man called Conway chimed in. "And we know about the faked credit card you just tried to use."

  "There must be some mistake," Frank insisted.

  "Where've we heard that one before?" countered Baylis. "Let's go to police headquarters. You can tell your story there."

  "We were just on our way there," Joe admitted, realizing how phony it sounded.

  "We're private investigators," Frank told them, "staying with Alfred Montague."

  "Into the car." The tall man's tone made it clear he wasn't interested in any more conversation. He opened the back door and ushered them in.

  Within minutes they were seated in the office of Chief Boulton. The blond police chief with his dark walrus mustache was bigger than Biff Hooper and very impressive in his immaculate, all-white uniform. He seemed out of place in an office where every flat surface was cluttered with papers, books, and boxes. He looked at the boys with cold blue eyes. "May I see some identification, please?"

  "We do get one phone call, don't we?" Joe asked, half-joking.

  "Of course," the chief responded. "Local or long distance?"

  "Local. We're staying with Alfred Montague. He's a retired policeman — do you know him?" The chief nodded. "He'll vouch for us." Joe dialed Montague's number. After the seventh ring, he hung up, remembering Montague's five o'clock appointment.

  Frank explained to the three men the purpose of their visit to Bermuda and why they had the Kruger villa under surveillance. He told them about Fenton Hardy's involvement in the case back in the U.S. and how ironic it was that they were now being held for a crime they were trying to stop.

  "I know of your father," the chief said, lightening up a little. "Shall I ring him?"

  The boys hated to use their dad to bail them out, but after exchanging a brief look, they nodded their agreement.

  Chief Boulton called Fenton Hardy, spoke briefly with him, and turned the phone over to Frank. Frank filled his father in on everything that had happened so far. He learned that his father hadn't put more than two hundred dollars on the credit card that the merchant confiscated.

  The chief got back on the phone. "Makes sense to me," he said after listening silently for a long time. "Fine, then. I'll call Chief Collig in Bayport. Then if everything checks out, I'll be happy to release your boys and give them all the help I can." After a quick goodbye, the chief hung up.

  Frank asked why they had been arrested when they hadn't done anything but try to use a card over its limit. And Chief Boulton confessed that they thought Frank and Joe might be couriers for the counterfeit credit card gang because they had been seen leaving Kruger's earlier. And then, when they tried to use the overdrawn card, they had decided to bring the Hardys in with the hope of sweating information out of them about Kruger.

  Before they were released, Frank and Joe officially reported the incident with the black BMW. Although they couldn't connect the attempt on their lives with their investigation of Kruger, there didn't seem to be any other explanation.

  Chief Boulton gave Frank and Joe some additional information about the counterfeiting racket. The police thought that stolen blank cards were being shipped to Bermuda—possibly from Puerto Rico. They were "punched" in Bermuda and then sent to the U.S. for distribution. The police suspected Kruger, but they didn't have enough evidence to search the man's house.

  "That's it," the chief said. "That's everything I have on Kruger. I can't get your credit card back, but if you're going to continue your investigation, I'll call the moped agency and arrange for you to rent two bikes. Meanwhile, your father said he would arrange to get you a different card."

  "Thanks," the brothers replied. "And if you're short of cash in the meantime, just let me know."

  Frank and Joe smiled, pleased that the chief had turned out to be so good-natured.

  "Now just fill out these accident report forms," the chief continued. "And list everything that was in the car when it sank."

  "Oh no!" Joe blurted out. "I completely forgot about the stuff in the trunk." Joe's face fell as he realized out loud that both cameras were thirty feet underwater. "And the binoculars," Frank added. "You can rent scuba gear across the street," the chief suggested, "if you're in the mood for a do-it-yourself rescue. But I don't know how good the cameras will be after that dunking!"

  "One of them was an underwater camera," Joe explained. "We used it when we went diving near Kruger's dock a couple of days ago."

  "I'll ring the scuba shop and make the arrangements."

  It was almost six-thirty by the time Frank and Joe loaded rented scuba gear on the back of the mopeds to ride out to the MG. It was a pleasant ride. The summer light made the pastel ice-cream colors of the houses outside Hamilton shimmer. The temperature was still warm, even though an ocean breeze blew across the narrow highway.

  "Here's the spot," shouted Frank, pointing down to where he knew the little car lay. Joe pulled up next to Frank, parking beside a pile of rocks.

  "Do you want to set up on the flat rock down there?" Joe asked, extending his arm toward a flat rock below them.

  "Looks good." Frank nodded.
/>   In fifteen minutes the boys were ready. Joe had stuck a spare key to the trunk into a small pouch attached to his weight belt.

  "The water's so still," Frank said.

  "Yeah. It's hard to believe it almost buried us."

  Frank and Joe slipped into the warm water and dived. It didn't take long to spot the MG, which had sunk another two feet into the soft sand. Joe motioned to Frank to check the inside of the car for the binoculars while he swam around to the trunk.

  Frank was able to force the passenger door open very slowly, granting him easy access to the car's interior. He found the binoculars and was looking to see if anything else had been left inside when he heard a sharp bang against the metal frame of the car. He turned to see Joe waving his arm for Frank to come. Joe's eyes were opened wide under the small mask, and Frank knew instantly something was wrong. He swam to Joe at the rear of the MG.

  The trunk lid was wide open and bent out of shape. Frank saw that the lid hadn't gotten twisted from the accident. Someone had forced it open. The two cameras were gone!

  Joe could understand why they had been run off the road—if Kruger was behind it. But why would he order someone to dive thirty feet underwater to take two cameras from the submerged car? Was he afraid of what the film might show? But would the film even be all right after getting wet?

  As Joe's mind was wandering, searching for answers, Frank was swimming around the MG, looking for clues. Trying to get his younger brother's attention, Frank clanged the base of his knife against Joe's tank, snapping him out of his daydream. Joe nodded after Frank made a swirling motion with his hand indicating they should scour the area.

  The water was so clear that there was enough light to see even at thirty feet, although Frank was using a flashlight anyway.

  They finished their underwater search, and Frank gave Joe a thumbs-up sign. It was time to surface. The two brothers swam toward the darkening sunlight above and climbed out near the rocks where they had left their gear.

  "That was a waste of time," Joe said, pulling off his face mask.

  Frank shook his head, disagreeing. "I don't think so. We learned that Kruger's really afraid that we might have something on him."

  "That's what I figured. A picture of something," Joe said.

  "Could be. Or maybe he just wanted our stuff to see if they could learn more about us. What else was in the trunk? Do you remember?" Frank asked.

  "Let's see," Joe replied, closing his eyes and trying to visualize the trunk. "My bag, which had a change of clothes and our towels and swim trunks, and some shells — maybe ... "

  "What about that lifesaver we found on the beach near Kruger's villa?" Frank was talking about a ring-shaped life preserver that must have fallen from a boat and been washed ashore.

  "That's right." Joe nodded, then stared at his brother. "But what would anyone want that for?"

  "Nothing—unless it belonged to them in the first place!"

  Frank and Joe gathered up their gear for the trek back up to the mopeds. They checked the ground carefully for any signs left by the underwater thieves during their approach or getaway.

  "Someone might have walked over here, but that doesn't tell us anything," Joe mused, talking to himself.

  "I don't see anything," Frank said.

  When they reached the bikes, they checked for tire tracks or footprints — anything that might help them later in establishing the thieves' identity.

  After Joe loaded his gear onto the moped, he scanned the surroundings. "They had to leave something behind," he said. "No one's that good."

  "Looks like they were careful. Pros always are.

  "But maybe not careful enough!" Joe had just noticed something glinting under a low bush.

  Frank followed Joe's gaze about fifteen feet from where they had climbed down to the water. A small object was shining, reflecting the early-evening light. "I see it!"

  "I hope it's not just a pack of cigarettes or something," Joe said as he jogged over to the bush. "Whoa — this just might be our first clue. Looks like a credit card!" Joe smiled.

  "Well?" Frank said.

  "Well," Joe mimicked, "it is a credit card, a Bank Eurocard." The sun was gleaming off the card's hologram. As Joe looked closer, his triumphant grin disappeared.

  "Well?" Frank urged.

  "It'll be very easy to track down the person who owns this," Joe continued. "According to the name on the card, it belongs to—Alfred Montague!"

  Chapter 4

  "MONTAGUE?" FRANK REPEATED, complete disbelief on his face.

  "Alfred Montague. That's what it says. I can't believe he's involved in this."

  Frank agreed. "Me, neither. There must be some explanation."

  "If there isn't?"

  "If there isn't," — Frank paused — "we might be staying in the home of someone who's trying to kill us!"

  "What do we do? How do we find out?"

  Frank thought for a second. "We'll ask him." He made it sound as if it would be the easiest thing in the world. But Frank knew the confrontation with Montague would be awkward—and possibly dangerous.

  "Okay. But I'd feel a lot better if Alicia wasn't around when we meet with Montague." He looked at his watch. "Almost eight o'clock. They should be home by now. Why don't I give her a call — think of something to get her out of the house," Joe suggested.

  Frank nodded and got on his moped to join his brother. After a few minutes of riding, Frank pointed out a pay phone next to a small roadside restaurant. Joe dropped two coins into the box, then slowly dialed. He was still trying to think of some reason to get Alicia away from the house.

  "Hello? Alicia? ... Hi ... " Joe was thinking in double time. Maybe he could ask her to meet him somewhere, then he and Frank could go to the house when she left. But he rejected that idea because it would leave her stranded. "Do you, uh, feel like coming out to meet me?" he asked, still fumbling for words. " ... Oh ... Where? ... Could you give that to me again? ... Wait, let me write it down." Joe fished for a pencil and then jotted something down as Alicia talked. "Thanks," he concluded. "I — we'll see you soon."

  Thoughtfully Joe replaced the phone on its hook and walked back to where Frank was waiting, straddling his moped.

  "Could you get her out of the house?" Frank asked.

  "She can't go anyplace because Montague had to borrow her car. But she did say she got a strange call about half an hour ago from some guy she didn't know. He said that Montague was supposed to be meeting with him, but he hadn't shown. And this guy," — he paused to check his notes — "Martin Powers, said the meeting was urgent. He left her his address."

  "Well, where is he? Let's go check it out." Frank was ready to take off.

  Joe checked his notes again. "Saint George's Harbor." He handed the note to Frank on which he had hastily scrawled "Martin Powers, #1 Blue Vista."

  The two scooters lurched forward as Frank and Joe sped off toward St. George.

  It was dark when the Hardys drove down into town. They parked their bikes and carried their scuba gear into a small cafe.

  "Yes, I do know where that is," said the proprietor after looking at the address. "You can leave your gear in the back room and then I'll accompany you outside and set you in the right direction."

  Joe and Frank found a clear corner for their stuff, then followed the proprietor outside.

  "Just go through the square there," the man explained as he pointed, "and take a right out onto the quay. It should be one of the boats out on the left of the dock."

  "Boats?" both brothers said simultaneously. Joe stared at the man. "You mean this address is a boat?"

  "Definitely! One Blue Vista is the name of a boat. Happy sailing!"

  Sailing wasn't what they were thinking of when Frank and Joe located the boat that had the name painted in bright blue letters across its stern. Martin Powers's boat took up an entire corner of the dock. "That's no sloop," Joe remarked. "That's a full-size yacht."

  "I wonder where this Powers guy is. Doesn'
t look like anybody's on board." Frank's observation was pretty obvious—there wasn't a light on.

  "You want to have a look?" Joe asked.

  "It's trespassing," Frank reminded his younger brother.

  "Yeah, but we're trying to find out what happened to Montague. Maybe he's on board—hurt or something. We should check it out."

  Joe took out his small underwater flashlight. He was going on board, with or without Frank.

  "Okay," Frank finally agreed. "But let's make it quick — someone may come soon, and there's no back door to this house." He followed Joe onto the deck of the large boat, walking silently in case someone really was on board. The sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat drowned out the creaking of the deck under the boys' weight.

  "Here's the door that leads down to the cabins," Frank whispered.

  Joe's flashlight lit up the small latch on the cabin-house door. Frank pulled on it, and the small door swung open.

  "I'll go first," Joe said. Frank checked to make sure no one from shore could see what they were doing. The dock was empty. "Follow me," Joe said, forcing Frank's attention back.

  The two brothers moved stealthily down the few steps into the small living compartment. "Watch yourself," said Frank from behind.

  Just as Frank spoke Joe tripped over something, stumbling noisily forward. The flashlight flew from his hand, to make a hard landing against the wooden floor.

  Frank winced as he heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by the lopping sound of the flashlight as it rolled across the floor. The light winked on and off with each turn of the flashlight. "You okay?"

  Joe had landed on one knee, but recovered quickly. "Yeah. The lens on the flashlight broke, but the light still works." Joe reached down and picked it up, shaking it gently every time the small light flickered out.

  "Are you clumsy, or what?" Frank asked his brother.

  "I tripped over something," Joe said, annoyed.

  Joe shone the light on the steps that had led down into the cabin. "But there's nothing on the stairs." Just then the light reflected off a thin wire that ran across the last step.