A Killing in the Market (7 page)

Frank and Joe ran into the elevator. "Hey, just in the nick of time," Frank said. "Glad you guys were standing there."

Frank had assumed the two men would stay on the floor, since they hadn't gotten into the elevator when the doors had first opened. But instead, they walked into the elevator. "We're going down too," one of them said in a cold voice.

The man pressed M for the main floor and stood against the back of the elevator. His husky friend eyed Frank and Joe silently, one hand in his pocket. The elevator motor hummed as they descended.

Frank wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the men share an almost imperceptible glance.

The lights above the elevator door flicked on and off at each floor: 9, 8, 7 ... Suddenly on six Frank reached out and pressed the number 5 on the panel. "Oops," he said. "Almost forgot to press our floor!"

"What are you — " Joe began, but Frank shot him a silencing glance.

The door whooshed open on the fifth floor, and Frank stepped out, pulling Joe with him. As Frank set a fast pace down the hallway, they heard the sound of the elevator closing behind them.

"What was that all about?" Joe demanded.

"Shhh!" Frank whispered. "Just look for the stairs!"

Joe wasn't sure what Frank was getting at, but he knew better than to doubt his brother's judgment when it came to quick thinking. He turned around, looking for an exit sign, and immediately saw that they weren't the only ones in the hallway.

Behind them, racing forward, were the two men from the elevator.

A few steps ahead of Joe, Frank rounded a corner. "Here it is!" he shouted.

The brothers shot through the door marked Exit A and scuttled down the cement stairs. The chunk-chunk-chunk of their footsteps was answered by heavier footsteps above them. Taking two steps at a time, Frank and Joe raced past the fourth-, third-, and second-floor landings. From the second floor to the ground level was a stairway, flanked by a smooth metal banister, twice as long as the others. Below them was the door to the lobby.

"There's only one way to do this," said Joe, hiking himself up onto the banister.

"Go for it!" Frank replied. "I'll hop on after you!"

With a loud whoop the Hardy brothers slid down to the first floor. When they got to the bottom, Joe hopped off and rammed his shoulder against the metal exit door.

Whomp! The sound of the impact echoed through the stairwell.

Joe grunted in pain and staggered back. He tried to push again, but the door wouldn't budge. "What's going on here?"

He stood back from the door to examine it. "Uh - oh," Frank muttered.

In the dim light they could read a large metal sign that was screwed into the door. Its red letters said No Re-entry on This Floor. Go to 2.

A new sound—that of clomping feet—grew loud behind them. They were trapped.

FRANK AND JOE swung around and looked up. The bare light bulb on the second-floor landing created two broad silhouettes as the two men ran down the stairs.

Joe tensed his body and looked at his brother. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah, let's go for it!"

Together, Frank and Joe leapt up at the men's legs.

"Hey, wait!" one of them cried out. He tried to climb back up the stairs, but it was too late. Joe's arms locked around his knees, and the two of them tumbled to the ground-floor landing.

"Stop!" the man said as Joe pinned him to the ground in a wrestling hold.

With a muted whomp, Frank and the other man landed on the floor next to them. "What are you guys doing?" Frank's adversary protested. "We didn't do anything to you!"

Joe's fist was poised in the air. "That's right," the man beneath him said. "And don't think we couldn't mess you up if we wanted to!"

"Who are you?" Joe demanded.

"We work for Norman Fleckman," the man said. "He told us to find you and bring you to his office. Peacefully."

Joe was baffled. "How did he know we were here?"

"And why didn't you tell us about yourselves before?" Frank added.

"He overheard you saying you'd go to Spears's office," came the answer. "So we came up and staked out the elevator."

Frank and Joe got up and brushed themselves off. "What do you think, Frank?" Joe asked.

"I think we should meet this Fleckman character," Frank answered, picking up the envelope of financial records. He turned back to the two men. "All right, guys, take us to your leader."

Joe exhaled loudly, pacing back and forth on the cool gray carpet of the reception area. He and Frank had just discovered a suspect to get the police investigation moving in a new direction— and get their aunt Gertrude out of jail. But they were stuck in a high-rise tomb, waiting.

From behind a long desk a young man looked up and said, "Mr. Fleckman should be out any minute now. It's been a long morning."

Joe just grunted and continued pacing.

Suddenly a gruff voice sounded over the intercom on the desk. "Albert, I want the Sullivan file right away. Send a memo to Skinner: sell! Get Norita on the phone in Tokyo, tell him the real-estate deal is off, and get me a turkey club and black coffee. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," the secretary said, rolling his eyes.

"Late lunch?" Joe asked.

The secretary shrugged. "One-thirty isn't so late."

The intercom cracked again. "Oh, and send those kids in here, will you?"

"There you have it," the young man said dryly. "His highness has spoken. First door on your left."

Frank and Joe walked into Fleckman's office. Stacks and stacks of papers lay all over the shelves, the floor, the chairs. A phone in one hand and a cigar in the other, Norman Fleckman sat at a desk by the window.

This place looks almost as bad as Spears's did, Joe thought. And nobody's even ransacked it.

"What do you mean, pork bellies have bottomed out?" Fleckman shouted into the phone. "You're just trying to dump your bad holdings on me. Nah! Nah, get outta here, Seymour. I don't want to talk to you!"

With a loud crash he slammed the phone down. "Love that guy, he's a barrel of laughs," he muttered. Then he pressed a button and said, "Albert, no calls."

Swiveling in his chair, he looked up at Frank and Joe and held out a large brass box. "Cigars?" he offered with a wide, toothy grin.

"Uh, no thanks," Joe answered.

"Good boy," Fleckman said, retracting the box. "They'll kill you. Have a seat." He pointed to two overstuffed chairs across from his desk. "Don't mind the mess."

Frank and Joe each sat on the edge of a chair, the only spots in the room that weren't completely covered with papers.

"We ran into two of your men — " Joe began.

Fleckman waved his hand dismissively. "Hope those goons weren't any trouble to you. Anyway, I wanted you boys here because I want to make you a deal. Anyone helping Eric Clifton in this case is a friend of mine. By the way, sad about Simone, isn't it? Fine man."

"Some people thought so," said Joe.

Fleckman raised an eyebrow and gave Joe a piercing glance. "Yes," he said, letting a cautious silence sit in the air for a few seconds. Then he leaned forward, uncovered an ashtray, and stubbed out his cigar. "Let me ask you guys a question. I saw you leaving with Spears. Now, what exactly did he tell you?"

"Is that why you sent your stooges to abduct us?" Joe snapped. "To grill us about something that isn't your business?"

"I see we're not going to have fun with this." Fleckman sighed. He leaned over his desk, his eyes shifting from Frank to Joe and back. "Okay, I know Spears must have talked, and I'm sure he gave you the old this-is-between-me-and-you line and I - don't - have - any - proof - but ... Told you I was a swindler, right? I took Simone's clients, blah, blah, blah — "

"Maybe. Maybe not," Joe replied. "Why? Do you have a different story?"

"Let me tell you something, kid." Fleckman leaned across his desk. "You don't get to where I am by playing it totally clean. But I'm a nice guy compared to Henry Simone. If you want to know about swindling, good old Henry wrote the book. It's common knowledge in the industry that he came up with the most creative scams. In fact, most of my clients came to me because they felt they'd lost their shirts with Simone."

"You have any proof to back that up?" Frank asked.

"I'll bet Spears showed you records on a computer screen, right? That's because he can change the figures easily. If he wants to show that Simone was clean," — he tapped his fingers on the desk as if he were typing — "click, click, click, he presses a few buttons and the records of scams disappear out of Simone's account." His eyes flared with anger. "And into mine! The guy's setting me up to look like a crook while he keeps all the illegal money!"

"I see," Frank said. "And I suppose you can tell us why Spears would do this to you?"

"I began suspecting that something was up, and my computer consultant was able to confirm that Spears was tapping into his accounting records." He rose from his chair and began pacing. "But I still can't figure why. Has he been paid off to protect Simone's reputation? Does he have a grudge against me? I just don't know."

"Seems to me you could just fire him," Frank said.

Fleckman sat at the edge of his desk. "Very smart — you're good. I'll fire him all right, but first I've got to clean my record, or I'll end up having to explain all this phantom money."

"And you expect us to help," Frank said matter-of-factly.

"I need someone who knows Spears, someone who can keep an eye on him, someone he has no reason to distrust. And you can be sure there'll be ample reward for this. Now, I know a couple of snappy young fellows like you can use a hot new car, some jazzy clothes — " He reached into his desk drawer and took out a leather-bound checkbook. "Just name your price—or should I say, consultants' fee!"

Frank stood up. "Sorry, Mr. Fleckman. We want to search out the truth as much as you do, but we're not working for anyone. We want only to clear our aunt."

As the brothers walked toward the door, Fleckman followed them. "You're honorable guys," he said, opening the door for them. "I like that. I respect it. Just remember, my offer will be there if you change your minds."

"We won't," Frank said. With that, he and Joe walked through the reception area and into the hallway.

Behind them, they could hear Fleckman shouting, "I said a turkey club, Albert! Not a hero!"

As they walked along, Joe said under his breath, "I guess he's used to people doing whatever he wants."

"From getting his lunch to trashing someone's office," Frank added. "I don't know if I trust him." They reached the elevator bank and pressed the Down button.

"I don't know if I trust him or Spears. Both stories have lots of holes. How could Simone have been broke and able to live in semiretire-ment in Bayport? And if Fleckman's records were really sabotaged, why didn't he just hire someone to audit his records and show what Spears was doing to him?"

"Down!" a voice called out as an elevator door lurched open.

"Ground floor, please," Frank told the uniformed operator, who shut the door.

Bzzzzzt. On the elevator-control panel the light for the third floor flicked on. Joe glanced at it and noticed that the operator passed right by the floor.

"Aren't you supposed to stop?" Joe asked.

The man played with the controls, but nothing happened. "Must be broken—" he mumbled.

Joe looked at Frank. Suddenly he felt very uneasy. They counted off the floors on the indicator light. It flashed to 2, then M.

And then B, for basement. And then SB, for subbasement. . .

"Hey, where are you taking us?" Joe demanded.

Now the man was fiddling energetically with the controls. "Dumb thing won't stop!"

"I don't believe this," Joe whispered to his brother. "Kidnapped by an elevator!"

The elevator kept dropping, finally stopping on SB3, three levels below the ground. As the door slid open, Frank and Joe stepped out to look around. They were in a long, dark concrete-block hallway. Behind them they heard the final click as the elevator door slid closed.

"Sorry, fellas, this elevator is out of service," the operator said. The boys could hear the chuckle in his voice.

"Thanks a lot," said Frank. "It was a pleasure flying with you."

With that, Frank and Joe stalked down the hall in search of a flight of stairs.

Instead, they saw the two men who'd brought them to Fleckman, flanked by two huge men in custodial uniforms.

Thinking fast, Joe said to the men, "There you are! The elevator is stuck down here, guys. Do you think you can fix—"

The men began to approach them silently. The brothers backed away.

"Okay, uh, why don't we run back and wait for you?" Frank and Joe spun around and bolted down the hallway.

The four men filled the corridor in back of them. In front of them the hallway ended at a door that appeared to be locked.

"You've got no choice, boys," the goon with the cold voice said. "And unfortunately, neither do we. Come on."

The men surrounded Frank and Joe, unlocked the door, and led them through dimly lit corridors that wound through the subbasement. Before long they heard a loud grinding noise.

The Hardys looked at each other. "What's that?" Joe asked.

"You'll see soon enough," the leader of the men said. "The boss said to dispose of you. So — "

They'd reached the end of the hallway. Now Frank and Joe could make out the words on the door.

The sign said Trash Compactor.

A SICKENING METALLIC shriek pierced the air as the man pushed the door open. Frank and Joe looked inside the cramped, dingy room. The walls, which had once been painted white, were now encrusted with cobwebs and dirt. Sour-smelling bags of trash were piled several feet high on the floor.

And in the middle of the room, an ironclad black machine stretched from the floor to the ceiling, vibrating wildly and letting out an ear-splitting noise.

"There's your compactor," one of the men answered, hiking up his dark green uniform pants around his overhanging belly. "It's in the middle of a load."

"What fool turned it on?" the leader barked.