The Number File

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe's mouth tightened as he listened to Montague speak. Frank could see that Joe was having difficulty believing Montague, and although Frank really liked the man, he didn't know what to think.

  "We'd better call the police," Joe said after Montague had finished his story.

  "No," Montague said. "There's nothing they can do now. And I'm too tired to handle any questions right now anyway."

  Frank and Joe tried to convince Montague to call them, but their host insisted on leaving the police out of it. "I'm going to bed now," he announced, rising suddenly from the couch. He turned and walked toward the stairway.

  Alicia jumped up and went over to her father, gently taking his arm above the elbow. "See you in the morning, boys," she said, helping her father up the stairs.

  "What do you think?" Joe asked his brother.

  "I don't know what to think," Frank admitted. "His bruises were real, that's for sure."

  "I think it's time to check out this house. If Montague's involved in any of this, there might be a clue."

  "Maybe you're right, but I've done enough for one day." Frank could no longer hide his weariness. "And what if we're wrong? I really don't feel comfortable going through his drawers and closets. We are his guests, you know."

  "His guests or his victims," Joe quickly pointed out.

  "Fine," Frank muttered as he headed upstairs to the guest room. "Let me know what you uncover—in the morning."

  Joe decided he would work on his own. He tiptoed around the living room, opening drawers, searching behind curtains and under seat cushions, lifting lamps, and moving books, not knowing what he was looking for.

  Then he went into the small study off the living room and opposite the kitchen. He crossed to an easy chair with a small end table next to it and pulled open the drawer in the table. His question was answered when he saw—on top of the pens — a small revolver.

  Joe reached for the gun, not concerned with protecting fingerprints since it was undoubtedly Montague's gun and his prints would be on it. He lifted the gun to his nose. It's been fired recently, he thought. The .22 revolver still had two bullets left in it. Although he and Frank hadn't dodged any bullets yet, Joe remembered that Walt Conway had been shot that afternoon with a .22.

  He brought the gun upstairs, excited to show his brother, but Frank was already fast asleep. No point waking him now, Joe decided. Can't do a ballistics check until tomorrow, anyway.

  Joe took off his shoes and lay down on the bed next to Frank's, thinking about everything that had taken place since early morning. He held the gun, after making certain the safety was on, and turned it over again and again. He was thinking about Kruger, the black car, the boat—and Montague—and as he lay there trying to put some of the pieces of the puzzle together, he shut his eyes and fell fast asleep.

  ***

  "Let's go!" Frank said, what seemed like only moments later to Joe.

  He moaned. "I just fell aslee — " He stopped short when he saw it was light outside.

  "Let's go," Frank repeated. "Nine o'clock! You want to slip on some pajamas so we can go into town?"

  Joe didn't understand his brother's joke until he realized that he had fallen asleep with his clothes on. "I feel awful," he said.

  "You look it. And since when have you taken to sleeping with a gun?"

  "A gun? Why would I — Oh, that gun." Joe saw the revolver on the bed next to him and realized he must have fallen asleep with it. "I found it last night in the end table in the study. I know it's Montague's gun, and the interesting thing is, it's been fired recently. I thought we could take it down to the police lab today."

  "Good. And then I think we should head back to Kruger's."

  "After being spotted yesterday?"

  "Maybe they won't expect us." Frank picked up a towel that had been tossed over the arm of an easy chair and threw it at Joe. "I called the police in Hamilton and Saint George just a minute ago. Divers went out early this morning to check out the MG, and experts sifted through the rubble of One Blue Vista. Nobody came up with anything. So, Kruger is still our best lead." He paused and put both hands on his hips. "Now, wouldn't you like to get ready for the day's detective work?" he asked, kidding his brother.

  Joe hung the towel around his neck, smiled, and headed groggily into the bathroom. "Another day, another adventure," he mumbled.

  It didn't take Joe long to get ready, and he soon joined his brother and Alicia in the kitchen for a light breakfast. Alicia agreed to let them use her car, since neither she nor her father had any plans for the day.

  By nine-forty-five they were on their way. They went into Hamilton first and stopped off at the police station to drop off Montague's gun. Then they drove on to Kruger's.

  They pulled off the road into a small clearing behind a clump of trees, about a hundred yards in front of the place where they had parked the day before. "Let's leave the car here," Frank suggested, "and walk the rest of the way. It should make it harder for them to spot us," he added. He stopped and pointed at a small boat he noticed heading into shore. The all-white boat looked about twenty-six feet long. Frank couldn't see any crew.

  "It's aimed right for Kruger's dock," Joe said. He paused and stared at the boat and dock, a puzzled look on his face. "I took a picture of that dock the other day. Something's not right." He tried to remember how everything had looked the last time they were there. "Wait a minute! Do buoys move?"

  "Sure. They bob up and down all the time."

  "No, I mean from one spot to another," Joe explained.

  "No," Frank said. "They're anchored down, so they can be used as markers."

  "Or signals!" Joe felt a rush of excitement. "When I took a picture last time, that buoy was on the other side of the dock. I'm positive. It was closer to the shore and on the right side."

  "We can be positive of another thing—that boat definitely is headed for the dock. Can you make out the name of it?" Frank asked. Joe shook his head.

  As the boat drew nearer, Frank read the name on its bow out loud. "Sea ... Mist. Sea Mist."

  Joe noticed that Frank was no longer looking at the boat but was trying to remember something.

  "That's it!" Frank exclaimed. "Sea Mist was the name on the life preserver we found on the beach — one of the things that was taken out of the trunk of the MG!"

  Chapter 7

  THE SEA MIST, a large, oceangoing pleasure craft, glided in toward shore, closer and closer to the dock used by Bernhard Kruger. Then, about a hundred yards from the dock, it stopped.

  "Looks like they're anchoring out there," Frank observed. "The flag's from Panama, but then a lot of American boats and ships have Panamanian registry."

  "I can see someone on deck," Joe interrupted, looking through a pair of binoculars. "He's lowering a dinghy." The purring sound of the engines had now stopped. High rolling waves came in as the winds started to pick up just then.

  "There's another guy," Frank said. He took the field glasses from Joe. "They're going over the side. It looks like they're going to come ashore in the dinghy." He scanned the rest of the yacht with the binoculars. "I don't see anybody else on board." Dark clouds began passing in front of the sun, casting shadows over the scene. Frank watched as the men climbed into the dinghy and began rowing ashore. The dinghy swayed and bounced in the surf.

  "The wind's starting to kick up a bit," Joe observed. "If there's a storm brewing, it probably means that no one will be taking the boat out again for a while."

  "You've got that look on your face," Frank said. "Don't tell me. I know exactly what you're thinking."

  "Well, look at it this way," said Joe through a broad grin. "The odds against getting blown up on two boats in two days are pretty high."

  "Here we go, breaking and entering again. Just don't tell Chief Hodges."

  Frank focused on the two men as they reached the dock. But the passing shadows made it difficult to see their features clearly. Neither guy would stand out in a crowd of other men in their late thi
rties or early forties. One had a well-trimmed, curly black beard. The other sported a knitted watch cap perched on the back of his head. Frank watched them as they pulled the dinghy out of the water and tied it securely to the dock.

  They were close enough for Joe to see them clearly without the binoculars. "I tell you what," he said, "you keep tabs on those two, and I'll sneak aboard the boat alone. That way at least one of us will be following orders."

  Frank sighed in agreement. "But we'll meet back here in thirty minutes." He watched as the two men from the boat walked up the beach to Kruger's door. "I'll make a dash for the house. As soon as they're being let in, I'll go over the wall. Less chance of someone looking out the window right then."

  "Okay . . . now!" Joe said, seeing the door open.

  "Thirty minutes," Frank reminded his brother. Then he broke into a sprint.

  Joe slipped into a pair of trunks and then swam out to the boat. The water was choppy, and Joe found it easier to swim underwater as much as possible; that way he avoided the crashing waves above him. Swimming came naturally to him, and in very little time he'd reached the Sea Mist. He swam around to the stern of the boat so he wouldn't be seen boarding her if anyone happened to be looking out of Kruger's villa. Straining upward, he was able to grab hold of a rail and hoist himself onto the deck. The wind had picked up now, and the water slapped against the sides of the ship in regular bursts.

  Joe took a moment to get his sea legs, steadying himself against the rail as the boat bounced and tipped. Then he walked forward along the deck, into a passageway that ran down the middle of the boat. The second door on the right was marked Captain. He opened it and looked in.

  The first thing he noticed was a table full of papers against the right-hand wall. He checked the rest of the room — a bunk on his right, a little sink on the left, metal lockers across from him. Then he went inside. Maps and charts for all the waters and islands from Puerto Rico to Bermuda were strewn on the tabletop. Pencil markings on the maps showed that somebody was more interested in staying within the cover of little islands than taking more direct open-water routes. He left the chart table and walked across the cabin to a small desk beside the captain's locker.

  Joe sifted quickly through the haphazard piles on the captain's desktop. "Notes, papers, checkbook stubs, computer disks—" Then he looked in the drawers beneath. "And here we have," — he opened a medium-size file — "a stash of blank credit cards. Jackpot!"

  He had just picked up one of the blank cards when he heard noises above him on deck. He froze for a second, listening intently as the sounds became distinct—footsteps! There was a crew member on board—probably left behind to look after the boat. Joe was annoyed at himself for taking it for granted that the boat was deserted. But he had worse problems.

  The footsteps were coming right toward the captain's cabin! Joe grabbed the check stubs and one of the disks on the desk and crammed it into the waist of his trunks. Then he made a dash for the cabin door—just as it began to open.

  Joe pressed himself against the bulkhead behind the door as a tall, muscular man stepped into the room. His hair was cropped close, and the back of his neck was all lines and wrinkles. Joe stiffened, but the man never noticed him, going straight for the desk. He leaned over, his back to Joe, and opened the bottom drawer.

  The boat was still swaying from the turbulence, and the cabin door was swinging on its hinges. Joe knew that if the door slammed shut, or if the tall man turned around, he'd be a goner. His only chance was to slip out right then. He stepped around the door and soundlessly backed out the open doorway, his eyes fixed on the big man.

  The burly guy closed the desk drawer and stood up. Now! Joe told himself, turning to bolt.

  Then he froze, staring at a short, broad, powerfully built man who gave him a nasty stare back.

  "Hey, Mickey! We've got company." The stocky man's voice was a growl as he shouted to his partner in the cabin. His dark blue turtleneck sweater made it difficult to tell whether or not the squat man really did have a neck. But he definitely had a four-inch black switchblade handle in his hand. At the touch of a button, the handle sprouted a four-inch silver blade.

  If Joe hadn't stopped short of the gravelly-voiced thug, he might have bowled him over and had a chance of getting away. Now he was trapped between Mr. Big and Mr. Broad. Moving back into the cabin meant four walls and the guy called Mickey; moving forward meant the man with the knife, but beyond him was the ocean. Joe decided to take a chance on getting past that switchblade.

  The armed man had a two-inch gash across his left cheek, which told Joe this was definitely not the thug's first knife fight. And even though Joe stared into the man's eyes, he could see the extended right hand moving back and forth in front of his body with the shiny knife.

  Then the muscle man made his move, lunging forward, the length of his right arm extended by four inches of sharp metal. His move was quick, narrowly missing Joe. The blade actually sliced his shirt as he twisted aside. But Joe had more than evasion in mind. Now his adversary was off-balance, leaning forward on one foot with his right hand out, his fist clenched tightly around the knife.

  With the back of his left hand, Joe swung at the raised arm of his assailant. Then Joe quickly turned his body so that his right shoulder pinned the man's arm against the bulkhead until he dropped the knife. Joe's back was to the squat guy, who had grabbed Joe around the neck. Joe drew his elbow back, hard, and hit his target — the man's stomach.

  "What the — " Mickey exclaimed as he stepped out of the cabin. "Hang on, Croaker!"

  "Great name." Joe grinned as he backed up and slammed Croaker into the bulkhead. He could hear the thud as Croaker's head made contact with the metal. Croaker finally let go of his stranglehold around Joe's neck.

  Joe backpedaled as he watched the man called Mickey move toward him now.

  Mickey didn't look much more attractive from the front than he had from behind. He looked as if he shaved his head rather than cut his hair. And his eyebrows, which were also short, met just above his long, crooked nose.

  The big guy was undoubtedly strong but slow on his feet. And the rolling motion of the boat didn't help him.

  Croaker, who was on his knees, reached out and wrapped his arms around Joe's left leg as Joe turned to race away from Mickey. Joe tried to shake him off, but Croaker held fast. He kept Joe back just long enough for Mickey to reach them.

  "Hey, tough guy," he heard Mickey say from behind. And then Joe felt a hard object slam into the back of his head. The world went red and hazy. Then a crashing blow connected a second time behind Joe's ear. He buckled, then sank into blackness.

  A gallon of seawater thrown into his face brought Joe around.

  "Are you awake now?" a raspy voice said. "Or would you like another drink?"

  When Joe could focus, he saw Croaker standing above him with a bucket. Joe started to go for his rival, but couldn't move. His hands and feet were bound tightly. His body aches were capped by a throbbing pain in the back of his head. "Now what are you going to do?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure," Croaker replied. "I wanted to cut you up for shark bait, but I'll let Mickey decide."

  "Has he said anything?" the big man asked as he walked over.

  "Nah, we were just talking about the fish."

  "What were you looking for?" Mickey demanded, turning his attention to Joe.

  "Nothing," Joe replied. "I thought this was someone else's boat."

  Mickey kicked him in the side. "What were you looking for, I said?"

  "Nothing — are you going to kick me again?"

  "Forget him," Croaker growled. "Let's toss him."

  Mickey persisted. "What were you looking for? Who are you working for?"

  Joe knew that whether he talked or not, he wasn't going to get out of this one. "I told you," he said, "I got on your boat by mistake. I'm not looking for anything, and I don't work for anybody. I'm just a tourist."

  "Aw, do what you want with him," Mickey t
old Croaker. "I've got stuff to take care of." He turned and walked away, leaving Joe in Croaker's hands.

  "Well, well," the muscle man said, "I guess it's just you and me now." He nicked out his switchblade, pressing the blade under Joe's chin. "Nah, I don't want to dirty my good knife. I tell you what — you swam out here, right? I'll let you swim back."

  He left for a minute and then came back with a small anchor. "This ought to give you some exercise." He tied the anchor to Joe's waist. "You can do the dog paddle," he said, grinning. "But pretty soon you'll be a dead duck."

  His laugh was more like a frog's croak as he picked up Joe and the fifty-pound anchor. With the strength of a champion weight lifter, he lifted Joe above his shoulders and tossed him into the ocean, like a fisherman throwing back an undersize fish.

  Chapter 8

  THE ANCHOR FASTENED around Joe's waist did its job perfectly. It sank rapidly to the twenty-five-foot ocean bottom, dragging Joe along like a fish on a line.

  Every muscle ached as Joe tried to squirm free from the ropes that bound him. His head was throbbing. He tried to remain calm and conserve his oxygen. But his fear and his struggles caused his heart to race faster and faster, burning up precious oxygen.

  He could feel the binding loosening around his legs, and he kept rubbing his feet together, trying to slip an ankle free. The wet rope stretched, and finally Joe did pull his legs loose. But his hands had been tied more firmly — they wouldn't budge. And no matter how hard he kicked his legs, it wasn't enough to overcome the weight attached to his waist. He was almost out of air.

  Joe gritted his teeth, forcing his mouth shut so the water wouldn't rush in as he started to black out. Something rasped against his lips! A heavy stream of bubbles rose in front of his eyes. Someone was trying to force something into his mouth. It was Frank, trying to get him to take the regulator of his scuba tank. Joe opened his mouth and started breathing rapidly into the regulator, his teeth clamping down on the hard rubber mouthpiece. Frank stood by holding his breath, one hand on the regulator, the other on his brother's shoulder.