Collision Course

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe shielded her with his body, hiding Callie's actions from Arno's view. He turned to face the promoter as Callie closed her purse with the insurance policy tucked inside.

  "So you were taking a little stroll around the fairgrounds at — " Arno paused to glance at his watch. "Not a very convincing story. What do you think, Mr. Hardy?"

  "What are you doing here this late?" Joe countered.

  "That's none of your business," Arno snapped. "But I have nothing to hide. I was in my room at the motel when someone tripped the silent alarm in the office."

  "Wait a minute," Joe said. "How did you know the alarm went off?"

  "Mobile phone," Arno said simply. "The alarm here sends a signal to my personal phone. I take it everywhere — a clever device, don't you think?"

  "Wouldn't it make more sense to hook up the alarm to notify the police?" Callie asked.

  "It might," Arno admitted. "But I'm on the move a lot, traveling from city to city, following the racing circuit. I'd have to make special arrangements with the police in each city. It's easier this way."

  "So why didn't you call the police?" Joe persisted.

  Arno shrugged. "The motel is closer to here than the police station. I didn't want the burglar - excuse me, burglars—to get away before the police arrived."

  Joe reached across the promoter's desk and grabbed the telephone. "Look, Mr. Arno, we're telling you the truth. The place was like this when we got here. But if you don't believe us, let's phone the police right now." He was bluffing, and he was betting Arno wouldn't call.

  Who would believe that the two of them had just sort of stumbled onto the scene? Joe had already talked his way out of one tight spot that night. If Arno called his bluff—and the cops - things could get very ugly.

  Arno moved around the desk and sat down in his chair. His hand rested on the telephone for a moment as he sized up Joe and Callie. Joe's gaze was steady as he returned the man's stare. Go ahead, Joe's eyes dared, make your move.

  Finally Arno let go of the phone and moved his band to his inside coat pocket. "No," he said, "I don't think that will be necessary. But the question is, now that I have you, what do I do with you?"

  Now who's bluffing, Joe wondered. Does he have a gun? Joe's whole body went tense, ready to leap across the desk and crash into the promoter at the first glimpse of a concealed weapon.

  "I guess you could just shoot us." Joe smiled, raising the stakes. "But that would be too messy, wouldn't it? Too many loose ends. Too many questions."

  "What are you talking about?" Arno replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I don't suppose either of you has a light? No, you wouldn't. Nobody does anymore. This is the only place I can smoke without being nagged." He gave them a foul look.

  "But we weren't talking about my bad habits, were we? We were talking about murder, I believe. And you were just about to tell me why I would want to shoot you."

  "You probably wouldn't," Joe said. "Shooting isn't your style. Accidents are more convenient, aren't they?"

  "Ah, that's it," Arno said, laughing. "You and your girlfriend are slinking around playing junior detective. You think Angus McCoy was the victim of foul play, and I'm the closest thing you have to a suspect. You came here looking for evidence and tore the place apart when you couldn't find anything."

  "I told you we didn't ransack your office," Joe snapped. "And I think I have a pretty good idea why you would like to see McCoy dead." Joe was tightly gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. He leaned over to look directly into Arno's face—and accidentally pushed one of the ' file folders onto the floor.

  It landed with a soft plop, and Joe glanced down at the noise. Nice move, Joe, he said to himself. Brilliant timing.

  The label on the file read "McCoy, Angus."

  A hand reached down and picked up the folder. "Find any worthwhile reading in here?" Arno asked, opening the file and sorting through the contents.

  "We weren't looking for anything," Callie insisted. "We were just — "

  "I know, I know," Arno interrupted. "You were just passing by." He took a key ring out of his coat pocket and unlocked the top desk drawer. He casually pulled out a gun and leveled it at Callie. "And I'm sure you're both quite anxious to leave. But would you mind if I search you before you go? Something seems to be missing, and I don't like it when people walk off with my property."

  Joe mentally kicked himself. He had let Arno's quick routine lull him into letting down his guard. CalIie opened her purse slowly. "There's no 1 for that, Mr. Arno," she said, removing the crumpled insurance policy. "I think this is what u're looking for." The promoter reached for the document with his free hand, but Callie let go of the paper just before he grasped it, and it fluttered to the floor. Arno stooped down to pick it up, and his aim wavered slightly.

  Joe moved like lightning. Still clutching the side of the desk, he heaved it up and over on top of Arno. Then he slammed all his weight into it, Pinning the man down.

  "Oof!" the promoter grunted as the weapon flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. "Grab the gun!" Joe shouted to Callie. "Ugh," Callie replied, carefully lifting the automatic pistol. "I hate these things." She looked at Joe. "Now what?" "I'll hold him while you call the police," Joe said.

  "Great idea," Callie said. "Where's the phone?"

  "Down here," a muffled voice came from underneath the overturned desk. "I'd make the call myself if the thing were still working. I guess it wasn't designed to have large pieces of furniture dropped on it. Come to think of it," Arno said, "neither was I. How about letting me out from under here? I think we can clear up this whole misunderstanding."

  "Only after you hand me that insurance policy," Joe demanded.

  Arno stuck out his hand and waved the document like a white flag of surrender. Joe snatched it away and handed it to Callie. He dragged the desk off Arno and said, "Okay, you can get up now—but slowly."

  Arno grabbed on to a leg of the toppled desk and hauled himself up. "That insurance policy doesn't prove anything," he said. "It's common business practice. McCoy was my star attraction. The deals I make with cities like Bayport guarantee that McCoy will be there for the race. Without McCoy, I could lose a lot of money."

  "So why'd you pull a gun on us?" Joe asked roughly.

  "Look, kid," the promoter snapped. "I'm getting tired of your questions. You say you didn't break in here. You say you were just passing by and found my office this way. I'll take your word for it—but don't press your luck."

  He glared at them. "Now get out of here before I change my mind—and leave the policy and the gun here. It would be real unfortunate if the police found you with a stolen firearm."

  Joe took the document and the pistol from Callie. He deftly removed the clip and cleared the chamber, ejecting the bullet that had been loaded and ready to fire. "You go ahead, Callie," he said. "I'll be out in a minute."

  · He handed the piece of paper to Arno and tossed the unloaded weapon into the farthest corner of the office. "You be real careful where you aim that thing," Joe said as he stormed out the door. "Next time I might just make you mince meat." " "I still don't trust him," Joe muttered to Callie · as they walked away. "But I don't have any evidence!"

  "You ever wonder why girls always lug around big heavy purses wherever they go?" Callie asked.

  "Huh?" Joe frowned. "What's that got to do with — "

  "It's just in case they come across some evidence," Callie grinned, reaching into her hand-bag and pulling out a videocassette. "While you were reading files, I was reading tape labels.

  Check this one out."

  Joe squinted in the dark trying to read the handwritten scrawl on the side of the plastic case. He stopped under a streetlight and held up the cassette to catch the light. " 'Master tape,' " he read aloud. " 'Angus McCoy Bayport Grand Prix Time Trial.'"

  "Maybe this is what whoever broke into Arno's office was looking for," Joe mused. "But why didn't they take it?"

  "Because
they couldn't find it," Callie answered. "It wasn't on the shelves with the other tapes. It was in the VCR."

  Joe just stared at Callie. "I can't believe it," he said. "Frank and I have both been so busy trying to unearth clues that we forgot Arno had the whole thing on videotape!"

  Chapter 9

  It was almost noon the next day before Joe Hardy stumbled out of bed and staggered downstairs, looking for his brother. Joe hadn't meant to oversleep, but it had been a long night.

  Frank wasn't anywhere in sight. Only his aunt Gertrude was home, puttering in the garden. "Is Frank around?" Joe asked. "There's something I want to show him." "You just missed him," Gertrude said, looking up from her tomato plants. "Callie picked him up a while ago, and they drove over to the hospital to see that nice Cohen boy. Poor thing. Did you hear what happened to him last night?" "Yeah, I kind of heard something about it," Joe said evasively. If his aunt ever found out that Frank and he had almost gotten killed saving Phil Cohen from the fire, she'd have a heart attack on the spot. -

  "I think I'll go over to the hospital, too," Joe told his aunt. He dug in his hip pocket, fished out the keys to the van, and loped across the lawn to the driveway.

  "Oh, that reminds me," Gertrude called after him. "Your brother told me to tell you to take the van and meet him at the hospital."

  Joe turned and smiled at her. "Say, Aunt Gertrude, you know what I think I'll do?"

  "What?"

  "I think I'll take the van and meet Frank at the hospital."

  "You do that," she said, nodding as she plucked a ripe tomato and dropped it into her basket.

  Joe drove to the hospital by the fastest routes. He wanted to make sure Phil was okay — and he was anxious to talk with his brother.

  When Joe got there, he found Phil sitting up in bed, talking with Frank and Callie.

  "Come on in, Joe," Phil greeted him. "Your brother tells me you saved my life. I guess I owe you one."

  "I had a little help," Joe replied, looking right at Frank.

  "Hey, what are brothers for?" Frank said.

  "Look, Frank," Joe started, "I'm sorry — "

  "No, I'm sorry," Frank interrupted. "We both said some things we really didn't mean, but at least you had a reason. Scott's your friend, and maybe I should have checked out all the other leads before pointing my finger at him." "Well, I'm beginning to have my doubts, too," he admitted. "I haven't exactly done a tremendous job of digging up evidence that will stick to the other suspects. I thought I had something on Arno, but that guy's got an answer for everything."

  "We were lucky he didn't have us arrested for assault," Callie added.

  Phil coughed and said, "That reminds me. It took me a long time to go over that electronic device that seems to be so popular with the assault and arson set."

  "Did you find out anything?" Frank asked. "Hard to say for sure. The circuitry was too complex for a simple remote triggering device. So you were thinking it was some kind of detonator for a small explosive or something, you'll have to think again."

  Phil shrugged. "I could probably tell you more if I had whatever it was connected to."

  "Then I guess that's what we'll have to find," joe said. "I wanted to do a little swimming before the end of the season, anyway. How about you?" pe added, nudging his brother. "Last one in is a rotten diver."

  "Wait a second," Callie protested. "Before both go leap into the bay and get sucked out to sea by the tides, how about watching a fascinating documentary over at my house?"

  Joe slapped his forehead, realizing he had forgotten to tell his brother about the videocassette. That was what he wanted to talk to Frank in the first place.

  "That's okay," Frank said before Joe could open his mouth. "Callie told me all about your little adventure last night. I just can't let the two of you go anywhere without me, can I?"

  Frank Hardy clapped his brother on the back and laughed. Then his tone shifted. "From now on," he spoke seriously, "we stick together! wherever the trail leads. Agreed?"

  "We both get in too much trouble alone." Joe chuckled and grasped his brother's outstretched right hand. "Agreed."

  Joe and Frank decided to take a detour past the Bayport Fairgrounds, so they told Callie they'd meet her at her house.

  "Why don't we check out Reinhart Voss," Joe suggested. "With McCoy gone, he'll get the whole team effort for the race. I don't think that's enough to make him kill the guy, but it's a start.'

  "Maybe he was tired of racing in McCoy'f shadow," Frank ventured as he pulled the van into a parking space near the Bayport Motel, the closest spot they could park to the fairgrounds.

  "Yeah," Joe said, opening the van door and jumping out. "And maybe he trashed Scott's engine to have an even better shot at winning the race."

  They walked to the fairgrounds. Fuel and exhaust fumes drifted through the air. The entire grounds had been transformed into a giant outdoor garage, bustling with activity.

  They passed one of the sheds where a Formula One engine was being revved up. The noise was deafening. "I guess mufflers are optional on these things!" Frank yelled. They found Voss with his head mechanic, making some last-minute adjustments to his car for his final time-trial run. "Is it not a beautiful thing?" The German driver smiled broadly, gesturing with both hands to indicate his 900-horsepower pride and joy. "You are just in time to watch me get the first position with the fastest qualifying time!" Joe stooped down and ran his hand over the smooth, sleek surface of the car. It was contoured to cut through the wind like a knife. "With McCoy gone and Scott Lavin's engine damaged," , he began casually, "I guess you're feeling pretty confident."

  Voss's smile quickly faded. "I learned much from Angus," he said quietly. "I will miss him — and I will also miss the chance to beat him. It is good to win, but better to win against the best." "Do you really think you could have beaten him?" Frank asked. "He was getting old," Voss replied bluntly.

  "Maybe I would not have beaten him here. But next year I would drive for Ferrari."

  "You're leaving McCoy Racing?" Joe cut in.

  "Yes," Voss said. "As long as I stayed with Angus I would have been number two, always getting the second-best equipment. So when Ferrari offered me their number-one slot, I jumped. This is my last race for McCoy. Maybe I can leave the team with a small victory. It should not be too hard."

  Frank gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

  "This is an exhibition race," Voss explained. "Most teams are here just to test out new equipment. Some of the top drivers are not even here. This is the kind of race that gives the younger drivers a chance."

  "Like Scott Lavin?" Frank suggested.

  "Why, yes," Voss agreed. "A win here would look very good for Scott."

  The Hardys looked at each other as the German driver climbed into the cockpit of his car and put on his crash helmet. Joe knew what Frank was thinking.

  The powerful engine roared to life, and Frank put his fingers in his ears. Joe leaned into the cockpit and tapped the top of the driver's helmet. Voss flipped up the visor and cocked his head in Joe's direction. Joe cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "But Scott's out of the race, right? His engine's no good!"

  In response, Voss shrugged his shoulders in the confined space and jerked his right thumb over is shoulder, pointing behind him. Then he inched the accelerator, the tires screamed and spun in protest, and the race car swerved out onto the roadway and took off down the course.

  Joe and Frank both turned in the direction Voss had pointed and saw the familiar yellow-and-red Formula One barreling down the course, heading straight at them.

  The Hardys jumped back as Scott Lavin's car screeched to a halt right next to them. Scott was laughing as he took off his helmet. He shut down the engine and squirmed out of the cockpit, handing the crash helmet to Joe as he climbed over the side of the car.

  "We're back in the race, Joe!" Scott exclaimed. "When I got the police call and came down to the garage last night, I thought it was all over. But we
worked all night and half the morning to fix the engine."

  Joe was staring at the ground, his hands stuffed in his hip pockets, waiting for the bomb to drop. The police report would have put Frank and Joe in the scene, and Scott was bound to want some answers. Joe swallowed hard. "About last night," he began.

  "If it weren't for you guys," Scott interrupted, 'we never could have pulled it off." "Huh?" Joe mumbled. Frank kicked him, signaling him to shut up.

  "I don't know how you did it, but a cop named Riley said you guys reported the breakin and chased off whoever did it before he could do any real damage.

  "Anyway," Scott continued, starting to climb back into the race car, "I just wanted to say thanks." He paused with one leg in the cockpit! and the other on the ground. Then he looked at Joe and said, "Say, since you're already holding the helmet, why don't you put it on and drive this baby back to the shed?"

  Joe's mouth dropped open. He could barely believe what he was hearing. Ever since he could remember, he had loved cars. He was the first person in line to get his driver's license. It seemed he had waited half his life for it. Now he was I actually getting a chance to drive the ultimate racing machine.

  But as badly as Joe wanted to get behind the wheel, he remembered his promise to his brother. They had agreed to stick together, and Joe wasn't about to let a car come between Frank and him. "Thanks, anyway, Scott," Joe said, shaking his head. "But I don't think so. We've got stuff to do."

  Frank knew that it took a lot of willpower for Joe to decline Scott's offer, and he was proud of him. "Oh, go ahead," he urged his brother. "I'll meet you back at the van. I want to see if I can find that writer, T. B. Martin, and ask him a few more questions."

  Joe didn't need any more encouragement. He put one hand on the roll bar and the other on the screen, stepped into the cockpit, and slid into the seat. Scott reached in and grabbed the metal catch-plate attached to the "antisub-gprine" straps—the straps that come up between driver's legs. Then he helped Joe buckle in the two shoulder harnesses and both ends of the belt. The catch-plate connected all the straps together, like a six-pointed star, right over Joe's face.