Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"You two get her out of here," Frank said to Joe and Emily, taking off his jacket. "I'll see how bad the fire is."
"Frank!" Joe yelled. "Wait - "
Whatever else his brother had to say was lost to Frank as he grabbed the doorknob with his jacket and burst into Johnson's office.
There was smoke everywhere. He'd barely opened the door before it was in his eyes, his nose, his throat. Frank coughed once, covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, and pushed into the room, closing the door behind him.
From the right, waves of intense heat washed over him. He staggered toward his left, where he remembered the huge bay windows were. Frank groped along the wall, searching.
His right hand touched glass, then the metal frame and the window crank. He turned the crank and opened the window. He leaned out and took a deep breath of fresh air.
Looking down at the street below, he saw Johnny Carew's goons, Terry and Monk. They were standing on the sidewalk opposite the office, looking straight up at him. In the distance, he could hear the wail of fire engines approaching.
The two men turned and quickly disappeared down the street.
"Carew," Frank whispered, his eyes still tearing from the smoke. He must have had the fire set. Frank had to tell Joe. But first things first . . .
He turned back to the office only to discover the heat and smoke were stronger than ever. The fire was spreading - partially because he'd fed it by opening the window and letting air into the room.
He and Joe would never be able to put the fire out themselves.
Taking a last, deep breath, he shut the window, and turned back toward the office door. He bumped into something heavy and solid behind him.
The water cooler.
Frank rammed it with all his strength, pushing the cooler toward the right of the room and the source of the heat.
The huge glass tank hit the floor with a loud plop. Instantly the seams ripped and Frank heard water lapping out. Suddenly the room was full of billowing smoke.
That's the best I can do, Frank told himself, and he dropped to the floor, where the smoke was less damaging. He moved on all fours toward the door.
He was so intent on focusing on the doorway that he crawled directly into a body on the floor.
"Oh, no," Frank said, rolling the man onto his back. Vance Johnson's eyes were shut, and Frank couldn't tell if he was alive or not. Frank struggled to his feet and backed out of the burning office, dragging Johnson under his arms.
Joe was rushing down the hall toward Mrs. Hunter's office, carrying two small fire extinguishers. Behind Joe, next to the entrance to the stairwell, Frank could see Emily Moran sitting with Mrs. Hunter, who was now conscious and talking.
"Forget it!" Frank yelled to his brother. "It's out of control! Just get out of here!"
Joe dropped the extinguishers and gave Frank a hand with Mr. Johnson as the first of the fire fighters were arriving.
***
A half hour later the blaze was under control, and both Johnson and Mrs. Hunter were conscious and being attended to by emergency personnel.
"They'll be fine," one technician assured Joe. "We just want to take them to the hospital to make sure there's no real harm done."
The EMS technicians stepped in front of Joe and lifted Johnson's stretcher.
"I'll go with them to the hospital," Emily volunteered, climbing into the ambulance.
Joe and Frank silently watched as the ambulance drove away. "We've got to find out who's doing this," Joe said angrily.
Frank shook his head. "I know who did it - well, the fire, anyway." He told Joe about Carew's two thugs.
Joe snapped his fingers. "Before he died, Delaney told Carew that Emily was trying to have the will nullified. If Carew didn't want that to happen, he might try to kill Johnson. Come on, let's find out what he's up to."
"Wait a minute, Joe," Frank said. "I don't think it would be too smart to go charging into Carew's office by ourselves."
"Who said anything about charging into his office?" Joe grinned. "I've got an idea."
"So do I," Frank said.
***
"That's right," Carew said, putting his feet up on the desk. "You can deal directly with my boys from now on - not Delaney's." He listened to whoever was on the other end of the line and laughed. "Don't worry. Moran's lawyer had an unexpected visit from the fire department today." Carew laughed. "I'll talk to you later. So long."
He hung up the phone and leaned back, taking a long, satisfied draw on his cigar.
From the skylight twenty feet directly above him, Frank was disconnecting the contact microphone they'd used to listen in on Moran's conversation. He turned to Joe.
"It was him," Frank said to his brother, who was sitting next to him, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. At Joe's suggestion, they'd sneaked back into the old Schickelman building and onto the roof over Cosmos to eavesdrop on Carew.
"And listen to this. Not only did Carew have his thugs start that fire so Johnson would never be able to challenge Moran's will in a court of law, he also thinks the fire destroyed some very special business contracts Moran had. He's going to take away Moran's territory without having to fire a shot."
"All right," Joe said. "That solves one mystery. But what about the murders and the attack on Chief Peterson?"
Joe was cut off by a crunching sound directly behind him - the sound of someone stepping on rooftop gravel.
Both boys turned.
Terry and the bouncer from Cosmos were standing there, guns raised.
"I wouldn't be too concerned about those murders right now, if I were you," Terry said. "You've got problems of your own - like how you plan on staying alive."
"You kids must think I'm dumb," Carew said. "Somebody took a shot through my skylight, and I'm going to leave it unguarded after that? Give me a break."
"I guess that it was kind of stupid of us," Joe agreed. He and Frank had been marched into Carew's office, where they were now standing, side by side, in front of Carew's desk. "Maybe as stupid as you were to leave that skylight unguarded in the first place."
"Hey!" Terry said, moving toward them. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll - "
"No, no, Terry, it's all right," Carew raised a hand, and his employee backed off. "I'll chalk up that outburst to his youth."
"Of course, Frank, there is another possibility," Joe said. He raised a finger to his lips and pretended to be deep in thought. "Maybe Mr. Carew never left that skylight unguarded at all."
Frank stopped to consider this. "Why - then how could anyone have gotten up there to kill Delaney? Wouldn't he have been seen? Oh, I get it," Frank said. "You're saying Carew did have someone up there guarding that skylight - someone who was up there to shoot Billy Delaney."
"That's right," Joe agreed. He turned away from his brother now and faced Johnny Carew directly. "What about it, Mr. Carew? Is that how it happened? Is that how you killed Billy Delaney?"
The man's face went through a series of expressions, from surprise to anger to shock, and back again. Finally he just started laughing.
"You really are Fenton Hardy's sons, aren't you?" Carew said. "So what? So what if it was me who had Delaney killed. You'll never prove any of it."
"I guess not," Joe said. "But tell me, where did you get the revolver - the one the police found up on the roof?"
Carew raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval. "What? Even you don't know the answer to that one, sonny?"
"Maybe you could help us out with it," Joe suggested.
Carew looked at Joe strangely for a second and then burst out laughing all over again.
"Help you out on it?" he asked, shaking his head. "Sure. Why not? I found that revolver at the scene of my son's death. I decided to hold on to it - thought it might come in handy."
"Guess it did, huh?" Joe asked, leaning forward on Carew's desk.
"Yes, it did at that," Carew said. "You know, suddenly I'm tired of you two," he said, all traces of his good humor suddenly gone.
He waved Terry forward.
"Take care of them, will you?"
Terry grinned. "With pleasure, boss." He drew his gun and motioned the Hardys back, away from Carew's desk.
"Come on, fellas," Terry said. "We're going for a little trip."
"What are you going to do - kill us?" Frank asked.
Carew nodded. "You got it, smart boy. We're going to kill you."
"Good," Joe said. "That's what I was waiting to hear."
The old man looked at him strangely.
Then, without warning, the door to Carew's office banged open, and a half-dozen uniformed police officers charged in, their guns drawn and raised high. Detective Lewis strolled in just behind them.
"What's this?" Carew roared. "Breaking and entering! You'd better be prepared for - "
"We're prepared, Johnny," Lewis said, holding out a folded piece of paper. "Here's our warrant."
"Suspicion of murder?" Carew asked, reading off the paper. "You got no proof of any of this." He sneered. "What're you going to do - hold me downtown on some half-baked charge - "
"Not half-baked, Johnny," Lewis said. "Not this time." He held up a small box for Carew to see. "It's all down on tape."
Joe stepped forward and began pulling off the hidden microphone he'd been wearing.
Involving Lewis in their plan had been Joe's idea. And when the detective had suggested he wear a wire, thinking that the crime lord might be looser with his tongue in front of a couple of teenagers, Joe had readily agreed.
Now he stood in front of Johnny Carew, holding up the recording device for the gang lord to see.
"Surprise," he said, smiling at Carew.
The old man shook his head, his mouth moving wordlessly.
Lewis snapped the cuffs on him.
"You have the right to remain silent," the detective began, leading Carew away. "Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. ..."
***
Two hours later Frank was fixing himself a cup of tea in the Nolans' kitchen and listening to the news on the radio. He was waiting for the news to break about Johnny Carew. Right then the day's big story involved the weather. Experts were predicting the arrival of the decade's worst blizzard sometime the next day. Joe was sitting at the table behind him, finishing off the bag of chips he'd started the other night.
It was early evening, and they were waiting for Ned to come home. It looked as if he hadn't been at the apartment all day.
"He was really upset after what Johnny Carew said this morning," Frank said. "It'd be nice to pass on some good news to him."
Joe nodded his agreement. "You'd be upset, too, if someone accused Dad of being a crook."
Frank had a sudden thought. "Joe, could Hugh Nolan have been the guy at the police station - the one in the wig who poisoned Chief Peterson?"
"No," Joe said decisively. "The man at the police station had to be a lot younger, and he didn't have Nolan's limp. And I'll bet the police have checked all the beneficiaries' movements that day a thousand times. If Nolan was anywhere near that station, they'd know about it."
Frank shook his head. "If we could only find out who that man at the station was."
"Well, we don't have a lot to go on," Joe pointed out. "A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark."
Frank laughed. "You know, Ned said the same thing the other night - "
The shock of realization struck him like a physical blow. He almost dropped the mug he was holding.
"Frank?" Joe asked. "Frank, are you all right?"
His head was spinning. Frank sank down heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, next to his brother.
"Two days ago - I should have seen it two days ago," Frank said.
"What?" Joe asked.
Frank shook his head, still lost in his own world. "How could he have known?"
Joe frowned. "Frank, you're talking nonsense. What are you trying to say?"
Frank slowly turned to his brother. "That first night we stayed at the Nolans'," he began, his voice growing firmer. "That first night we met Ned."
"Go on," Joe urged.
"After you went to sleep, we stayed up a little while longer, talking - "
In his mind, Frank could hear their conversation replaying itself, word for word. . . .
"Have they found any trace of the man who attacked the chief?" Ned asked.
"I don't know yet, but I doubt it. I probably got a better look at him than anyone, and I don't think I'd recognize him if he walked up to me and shook my hand."
"I suppose that's understandable. A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark. ..."
"A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark," Frank repeated. "Ned said the same thing you did."
"So what?" Joe asked.
"So this," Frank said. "It was the night of the attack. We'd barely discussed the incident at all, and there weren't any reports of it in the news. So how did Ned know the guy was wearing a white shirt?"
Joe let out a long, low whistle. "I see what you mean," he said.
"It was Ned, Joe," Frank said. He laid his palms flat on the table and looked at his brother. "Ned is the killer."
"I don't know, Frank," Joe said, shaking his head. "It feels right, but - it's awfully thin. We'll need a lot more proof to make it stick."
"Okay - what about this?" Frank stood and shut off the water he'd been boiling for tea. "Who needs the money more than Hugh Nolan?" he asked. "Look at this place. Look at the way Nolan lives. And if it is Ned, he had a good reason for getting Daniel Carew - he's Johnny's son. And a better reason for getting Chief Peterson. He was the one who slandered his father's name and ruined his career."
"If it was slander," Joe pointed out. Then he had another thought. "What if Hugh and Ned are working together?"
"What if," Frank agreed, nodding grimly. "If that's the case, Dad's in a lot of trouble."
He thought a moment. "I think we need to find out a little bit more about Ned before we go to the police."