A Killing in the Market (8 page)

"I did," the potbellied man said. "You know, Fleckman called only five minutes ago, and I wanted to get a load of trash in before — "

THWOOMP! CRRRUNCH! As the noise echoed through the room, Joe felt sick to his stomach.

"You know we can't stop that thing, or put anything in it, once it starts? Where were you when they handed out brains?"

"W - well, it's coming to the end of the cycle," the custodian said defensively.

Slowly the noise began to subside.

"I guess we're stopping here to check out the trash on the way upstairs, huh, guys?" Joe asked.

"We're going upstairs all right," the other maintenance man said with a toothless grin. "But you'll be coming out a lot shorter."

At that moment the great machine stopped. The leader opened a door in the front of it, releasing an even fouler odor into the room. He pulled out a grotesque three - foot - wide object — a dense, battered-looking combination of paper, folders, metal brackets, and food wrappers, all crushed into a neat little cube.

Joe swallowed hard. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his brother staring poker-faced at the machine. Joe knew that look. It meant Frank was baffled and was feverishly trying to come up with a plan.

"All right," the leader said, shifting his eyes from man to man. "Throw 'em in."

Brawny arms grabbed Frank and Joe, jerking them toward the open door.

"J - just a minute!" Frank shouted at the top of his lungs. "We've got something Fleckman ought to see!"

"What are you talking about?" the cold-voiced goon demanded.

"We got papers from Spears — the guy who's trying to foul Fleckman up." Frank was almost babbling as he spread out Spears's printouts on top of a panel connected to the trash compactor by a wire.

Joe stared at his brother, wide-eyed. Had he gone berserk? Had he truly given up?

But as he watched Frank spread the printouts with his right hand, he noticed Frank's left hand creeping over to a small switch on the panel.

The leader, who had been trying to make sense of the accounting gobbledygook, turned back to Frank and said, "Just tell me what this proves and I'll — " His eyes popped wide open. "Hey, what are you doing?"

Frank lunged and flicked the switch. With a loud chunk! the compactor's door slammed shut.

A deep humming sound filled the room as the machine started up—with nothing to compact.

"You rotten — " The leader, followed by the largest of Fleckman's goons, rushed Frank.

Joe wasted no time. In the confusion he spun around and flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into total darkness. Loud crashes and shouts of pain resounded as Frank and the others tripped over the trash on the floor.

And in the midst of it all, a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.

Frank, letting me know where he is, Joe thought. He groped around and found the door and knob. Then, as loud as he could, he let out a whistle of his own.

In the darkness he heard low stumbling noises.

"Yeeouch!" came a low, unfamiliar voice.

"Oof!" came another. A third yell was followed immediately by a fourth.

"I'm coming, Joe!" Frank's voice called out. In seconds Frank stumbled against his brother, and they both pushed their way through the door.

As they slammed it behind them, another frustrated yell sounded from inside.

"I got all four of them," Frank said. "Let's get out of here before one of them gets up."

Pushing at top speed, they followed the cinder-block hallway to a stairwell. Flinging the door open, they hauled themselves up three flights of dingy stairs until, panting, they stumbled into the building lobby and out the door.

The honking of horns and the roar of traffic was a welcome sound to their ears as they ran out to the crowded street.

"How do we get to Elite Eye?" Joe shouted to Frank, close on his heels.

"I'm not sure! Let's find a phone and call!" Frank answered.

At the end of the block was a bank of four outdoor pay phones. One of them was empty, and Joe grabbed it. He shoved a quarter into the slot and dialed Clifton's number.

"I'm sorry, your call requires a twenty-five-cent deposit," a recorded voice droned.

"But I did deposit—" Joe began to shout. Then he saw the person next to him hang up and walk away from her phone. He reached over and lifted the receiver—and felt a huge hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, pal, I was on line here!" the guy connected to the hand complained.

Joe turned all the way around to see a group of harried people waiting for the phones. All were glowering angrily at him — especially the man-mountain who had been first.

"Never mind, Joe! Follow me!" Frank shouted. He had just spotted a Chinese restaurant and knew a phone would be inside. They rushed inside and Joe once again dialed Clifton.

"Friendly place, this city—" he said under his breath. "Hello, Joe Hardy for Eric Clifton, please!"

Immediately he heard, "Yes, Joe, where are you?"

Joe craned his neck to see the street sign outside. "Rector and Greenwich, down in the financial district. Are we near you?"

"No. What are you doing down there?"

"We had a run-in with Fleckman. He knew we were talking to Spears, and — "

"Fleckman! Who told you to — I should have warned you. Stay clear of that guy. He's ruthless — especially if he needs something from you."

"Now you tell me," Joe muttered.

"What's that?"

"Never mind. Listen, we've got more suspects than we know what to do with. Fleckman tried to kill us, Spears may have lied to us. And you'd better know, we found Alexandra Simone's scarf at Simone's cottage — "

"What? Alexandra — hmm, you know, I've been having suspicions about her. Listen. Meet me in half an hour at the train station at the gate for Bayport. I think it's time we confronted Mrs. Simone—and on the way there you can tell me about your other evidence. Get a move on and stay away from Fleckman."

"Right!" Joe slammed down the phone and said, "Follow me, Frank!"

Without wasting a moment they barged out of the restaurant. "Okay," Joe said, looking around. "Wall Street..." He noticed a crowd of people at a nearby bus stop and asked one of them, "Excuse me, where's the Wall Street subway?"

He didn't answer Joe. An elderly tourist couple said, "We'll let you use our guidebook if you'll point us toward the World Trade Center."

While Frank pointed the way, Joe flipped through the downtown street maps. "It's just up this street and a couple of blocks — "

He looked around—to find himself staring up into the surprised eyes of one of Fleckman's goons. "Thanks!" He handed the tourists their guidebook, then he and Frank raced uphill along the street.

When they got to the top, they turned a corner to find a crowd filling the street shoulder to shoulder. Hundreds of backs were moving as people craned their necks, trying to watch something the Hardys couldn't see.

Frank and Joe started back down the hill, but stopped when they noticed all four of Fleckman's goons rushing them. There was only one way to go.

"Excuse me — excuse me—" Frank and Joe said, pushing their way through the crowd.

People called out as the Hardys pressed desperately onward: "Hey, knock it off!" "Don't push me, man!" "Where are you going, pal? This is a parade!"

Sure enough, Joe glanced up to see a motorcade rolling down the street. In front of it was a large banner that said NYC WELCOMES ITS OWN WORLD SERIES CHAMPS! Ticker-tape and computer paper rained down from the skies.

"I wonder how much of this will end up in a trash compactor," Frank mused, elbowing people right and left.

In convertible limos baseball players sat waving triumphantly to the crowd. Between the cars walked more of the players, bat boys, front-office people, and others. Everyone was whooping it up. "I don't even recognize half those people!" said Joe. "Maybe we could fit in with them!"

They burst through the crowd and vaulted over the police barricade that lined the street. "Now, look triumphant!" Joe said as they joined the parade. They marched with a group of celebrating ballplayers, waving and throwing kisses into the crowd.

The four men had reached the barricade by now, and the potbellied goon ducked under first. He was met on the other side by a large, annoyed policeman, tapping a billy club into his palm.

After a few blocks Frank and Joe scanned the onlookers and saw no sign of their attackers.

"Let's get out of here!" Joe said.

The two brothers slipped away from the parade and back into the crowd, where they finally made their way toward the subway.

"All aboard the Bridgefield train, leaving Track Eighteen in one minute!" the voice echoed through the train station.

"Come on!" Joe called to his brother. "That's the one that stops in Bayport! We've got to get aboard!"

Frank and Joe hurried to the top of the stairs. The station was especially jammed with people who had come to town for the parade. Below them, a throng of people was scrambling to get into the train before the doors closed. Joe caught a glimpse of Eric Clifton boarding one of the cars.

"Clifton's in the second car up!" Joe called back to Frank. The two of them tried to make some headway in that direction.

"Welcome to New York," Joe muttered. "It feels like all I've done today is fight crowds."

"That may not be all we'll have to fight," Frank said in his ear. "Look who's over there."

Joe glanced to his right and fell silent. Forcing their way down the stairs and onto the platform were two familiar faces — the goons Fleckman had sent. They were without the custodians this time though; they must have split up. In the crush of the crowd, the jacket one of the thugs wore flapped open—revealing a leather shoulder holster!

The man pulled his jacket closed and stepped onto the train. In seconds another man squeezed out of the train.

"That was Bart, Spears's assistant!" Frank said.

"What's going on here?" Joe asked. He and Frank maneuvered their way halfway down the stairs to get closer to the train. They could just see Clifton sitting right beside the window. They also saw the two goons take seats—right behind him!

"Clifton!" Joe shouted as he tried to shove his way down to the train.

The doors closed tight just as Frank and Joe hit the platform.

"Fleckman knows who Clifton is and what he's investigating," said Frank. "He's probably got those guys after him too!"

"Clifton!" Frank and Joe shouted, running beside the train as it slowly started up. They pointed wildly to the seat behind him.

But as the train picked up speed and pulled away, Clifton just stared back at them, looking bewildered. Only Frank and Joe knew that behind him sat two armed killers.

WITH A RHYTHMIC chunk - a - chunk - a - chunk, the brushed-chrome commuter train disappeared into the tunnel.

"What do we do now?" Joe asked.

His question was answered by the track announcer's next words: "Three-thirty train for Kirkland now boarding. Track Twelve. All aboard!"

"Come on, Joe!" Frank said. "Kirkland's close to Bayport. We can catch a lift from there."

They ran back up the stairs and followed the crowd to Track 12. This time they were early for the train and grabbed two seats in a rear car.

As the train pulled out of the station, Frank looked out the window and drummed his fingers on his armrest. "I hope we're not too late," he said. Worry showed in his eyes.

Joe nodded. "I can just see the headlines: 'Commuter Shooter: Murder on the Bridgefield Express.' "

"They'll probably wait to nail Clifton until after they reach Bayport," Frank stated objectively.

"Sure, go ahead and be logical," Joe retorted.

The brothers fell into a gloomy silence as the train chugged through the tunnel. Their aunt Gertrude had spent the night and most of that day in jail, and the man who could help them get her out was riding on a train into a deathtrap.