Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"Sounds like a good idea," Joe said. "Then you and I can meet for dinner afterward, Karen, to talk over what you've found out."
Frank took his brother aside. "Joe, you and I are supposed to be handling this case. We don't need volunteer help."
"I do," Joe told him, and then turned back to Karen. "Dig into Emily Cornwall - as a personal favor to me."
Karen smiled and dropped the magazine into her big black shoulder bag. She turned to Frank. "I really am a good reporter," she said. "I'll get you all the information there is to be found."
Frank studied her silently for a few seconds. "Okay," he said finally. "We'll see."
***
The manager of the Piccadilly Rep, the company presenting 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd, was putting on his makeup for the play. "I'm flattered that an American movie agent - Larry Berman - was interested in our show."
The man glued pieces of bushy black beard to his face, having painted his nose and cheeks bright red. "I play Sir Toby Bearpit," he said, talking to Frank's and Joe's reflections in his makeup mirror. "Even gotten some excellent notices. 'Ralph Estling is more than adequate.' That's from the London Times, my boys."
"I'm happy for your career," Frank told him. "But I'm afraid Larry Berman didn't arrange this meeting to check out your play. We're trying to locate Jillian Seabright. Why did she quit?"
"According to her agent, she got a better offer." Estling puffed out his cheeks, snarling so his white teeth showed under the false hair. "Beard is just about right, I think."
"We're talking about Ian Fisher-Stone here?" Frank asked.
"Yes, old Ian. Not much of an agent, as I told Jilly many a time. She's a very talented lady and deserves much better representation."
"You've met Fisher-Stone?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I'm not partial to having whiskey fumes breathed on me."
Frank nodded to his brother. "How did he let you know Jillian was leaving - in person?"
"No, thank heaven, merely over the telephone. 'Dear gell is off to do a major role, old man.' Something like that."
Joe said, "And you just let Jillian out of her contract with you?"
Estling smiled, still carefully smoothing his beard. "We're a pretty informal lot - don't pay much, either. So if Jilly had a chance to do better for herself, I wouldn't stand in her way."
"Did Jillian ever discuss this big part with you?" Frank asked.
"Never said a word, but that's not unusual." Estling put on a wild black wig, then slipped into a padded coat. Joe stared. He'd watched the actor transform himself from a burly but mild-mannered type to a rather scary-looking bully.
"When did the agent call you?" Joe asked. Before or after her final performance?"
"Morning after." Estling's voice became a booming growl as he started getting into character. "Good thing we had an understudy. She's not quite as good as Jilly was, but more than adequate. Well, my lads, I'm in the first scene, and the curtain's going up very soon. Any more questions?"
"Not now," said Frank, grinning at the transformation. "But we'd like to talk to some of the other people in the company who knew Jillian."
"I'll allow that. Just don't make anyone miss his or her cue." Estling gave a final fluff to his false beard, made a low rumbling sound in his chest, and strode to the dressing room door, grandly yanking it open. "If you run into Jilly, give her my best."
The Hardys split up, Frank hitting the dressing rooms while Joe checked the green room, where the actors congregated between scenes.
After knocking on two doors and getting no answer, Frank heard a reply at the third. A high, fluting voice said, "Come in."
A plump sixty-year-old actress introduced herself as Beatrix Graill. And from the look of things, she didn't intend to leave her dressing room for a while.
"We have plenty of time for your questions, young man," she told him as she heated water for tea on a hot plate. "Lady Victoria Gadabout doesn't make her entrance until the second act."
"You knew Jillian well?"
"We were friends, yes. I'll explain why I'm so interested in talking to you - in addition to concern for the girl, that is." The actress sat down, carefully shifting her wide skirt with its rustling petticoats. "Two years ago I played Mrs. Dillingham on television."
Frank nodded. "That's right, the lady detective. I thought you looked familiar. We saw that on a public broadcasting station in America."
"The old girl's dottier and frowzier than I am." Frank noted that she looked a lot different now, in an elaborately curled and powdered wig. "Playing a detective got me interested in investigating. I read lots of mysteries - you might call me an amateur sleuth." She grinned. "Or an annoying busybody. Jillian probably would describe me the second way."
"Was there some reason - "
"Yes - and its name is Nigel Hawkins." Beatrix Graill deftly poured boiling water from a saucepan into a cracked china teapot.
"You sound like you're describing some kind of awful insect."
"Rather close," she answered. "The acting profession, alas, has many a shady person on its fringes. Nigel is one of the shadiest. It pained me to see Jillian dining with him at one of my favorite Soho restaurants a few weeks ago."
"What does this Hawkins do?"
"He's a producer of low-budget films, at the rate of about one every other year or so. Dismal things, designed to cash in on some current fad - punk music, celebrity lawsuits, political scandals. Although Nigel seemingly makes a good living, none of his movies ever pays off for the investors. Or for the poor actresses and actors - and they certainly don't help their careers."
"Was Jillian planning to be in one of Hawkins's films?"
"I certainly hope not," Ms. Graill said. "The fact that she departed so suddenly, however, makes me worry. Maybe she did agree to work for that dreadful man."
"But Jillian didn't actually tell you she'd signed up with him?"
"She acted very odd when I mentioned that I'd seen them together." The plump actress suddenly dug a hand into an open trunk nearby. Ah, look at this." She held up a framed photo. Nigel in the flesh. He's the handsome chap at the left of this garden party group, just next to me."
Frank took the picture and studied it. Nigel Hawkins was a tall, thin man of about fifty. Very well dressed, his light hair worn long and wavy, his small mustache neatly clipped. "Does he have an office in London?"
"Last time I heard. A small one, in an unfashionable part of the city."
"Perhaps I should go talk to him."
Beatrix Graill returned to her teapot. "Be on your guard with that man," she warned. "I've heard rumors that he's been in more things than questionable films. This is all hearsay, mind you. But there's been talk that he's involved in fencing stolen gems."
"So he'd be interested in, say, emeralds."
"Just about anything that sparkles."
A heavy fist knocked on the door. When Beatrix opened the door, Joe came bursting into the dressing room. "Trouble," he announced.
"What's happened?" Frank asked.
"Larry Berman called us here at the theater - he remembered the appointment he'd set up." Joe looked a little numb. "He wanted to know if Jed was with us. When I told him he wasn't, Berman got really upset."
Frank took a deep breath. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Joe nodded unhappily. "Looks like Jed Shannon has disappeared, too."
Frank and Joe took a taxi to Jed's town house, where they met up with Larry Berman, wearing a different, even more explosive Hawaiian shirt this afternoon. "I'm worried, guys, really worried. My boy may be in danger - and on top of that, we blew six interviews." From the amount of pacing going on in the town house living room lately, Joe wondered if there'd be any rug left.
"Give us some details," Frank told the nervous agent.
"The day was going beautifully," Berman began. "Jed's a bright boy, and the media people love him. He's very good at interviews and can be, you know, likable, funny, sincere - whatever the situation calls for.
"Okay, so we're at London Stitches, a very trendy fashion magazine. In the middle of the interview a girl walks into the editorial offices to say there's an important call for Jed. I'm about to tell her to get lost, but he jumps up and goes out to take it in the reception area."
"So who was the call from?" Joe asked.
"Jed never told me. When he came back to continue the interview, I asked him who was on the horn. He said it was nothing important." The agent shrugged. "After that we stopped for coffee at some dinky overpriced bistro. Jed said he had to use the washroom. And stupidly, I let him go alone."
Berman shook his head. "After about ten minutes, I sent those bonehead security guys who were with us out hunting for him. He was nowhere to be found. But they dug up a waiter who told me he saw Jed head out the back door."
"Alone?" Frank asked.
"From what the waiter told me, yes."
Frank shook his head. "Then it doesn't look as though Jed was kidnapped."
"Maybe they lured him outside somehow and grabbed him there." Berman did some more unhappy pacing. "Anyway, I haven't heard from him since, and we're talking hours here. I'm in a major bind."
Frank stared. He'd never seen someone actually wring his hands before.
Berman stopped wringing and mopped his forehead. "Do you have any idea what Jed is worth to my agency? If any suspicion got back to my bosses that I've let him just disappear ... " His voice died out. "I'll be finished in Hollywood. Nobody will trust me - nobody."
"You'd better go to the police again," Joe suggested.
"No way I can do that." The agent shook his head vigorously. "What if Jed just sneaked away to meet some lady? I mean, he's been known to do that now and then. To avoid any kind of bad publicity, we've got to find him quietly. Can you help me out here?"
Frank frowned in thought. "I'd say the most likely explanation for Jed's action is that he got some kind of news about Jillian Seabright."
"Do you have the phone number for London Stitches?" Joe asked.
From the pocket of his loud shirt Berman took out a wad of memo slips. "Yeah. Here it is." He plucked out a slip of paper and handed it over.
Picking up the nearest phone, Joe called the magazine. "I'm a member of Mr. Jed Shannon's staff, and I've got a problem," he said into the receiver. "Mr. Shannon received a telephone message while he was at your offices earlier. He was supposed to take some notes - and lost them."
Joe worked very hard to make his voice sound sincere. "Worst of all, he doesn't remember the caller's name. So if - oh, you're the one who took the call. Do you remember the name - Dickens? Bert Dickens? Great. Thanks a million." Putting the phone down, he glanced over at Berman.
"Means nothing to me." The agent gave them a baffled shrug.
Frank was already digging out the telephone directory. "Here it is. Bert Dickens - and he lists himself as a private inquiry agent."
Joe had a grim smile on his face. "Looks like Jed didn't think we were good enough for this job." He looked hard at Berman. "Did he hire himself another detective?"
"If he did, he sure didn't tell me about it. But Jed's been very upset about this Jillian. And he did mention that he thought you were a little young."
"He's not that much older than we are himself," Joe pointed out.
"Acting and detecting are two different things," Berman said.
Joe gestured to the phone book, still in his brother's hand. "So do we give our friend Dickens a call?"
Frank shook his head. "I think this calls for a personal interview.'
***
The address in the phone book was in East London. To get there from Jed Shannon's town house, the easiest route was by way of the London Underground.
"Hey, Frank," Joe whispered after they'd gotten their tickets, "how far underground do these trains run?"
Two sets of escalators later they had finally reached the station platform. Frank thought the arriving train looked a little old-fashioned. It actually had a wooden floor. But it was surprisingly quiet - and very clean.
They switched trains after two stops, then rode on for what seemed like forever until they'd reached almost the other end of London.
Coming out of the station, they found themselves under gray skies in a quiet neighborhood of four-story brick buildings. Frank whipped out his pocket map of London and started off for the local main street.
"There - there it is," he said.
His brother, however, dug in his feet and began tugging on Frank's arm.
Frank gave him a look. "We don't have the time, Joe."
"I didn't have much lunch, since Karen and I cut it short to go hunting for you." He tried to look very sincere. "It seems to me, Frank, that fate is taking a hand. I mean, why else would this private eye have his office right over this fish-and-chips restaurant?"
They had stopped under the awning of the fast-food restaurant, the only dry spot on the rainy street. Joe was looking longingly through the window at the fried fish and french fries. Frank was trying to move him along.
"Let's go, Joe. This detective may know something about where Jed is."
"Okay, okay." Joe followed his brother to the stairway that led up to the second floor of the sooty old building. "I'll try to curb my hunger."
Frank decided that Bert Dickens wasn't enjoying much more success than Ian Fisher-Stone. The hand-lettered sign on the back of the index card held up with thumbtacks was an indication.
They headed up a steep stairway paneled with old, dark wood. It was also dimly lit and smelled strongly of stale oil from the fish-and-chips shop below.
"And yet another missing person," Joe remarked as they climbed upward.
"Jed may not be missing. It could be that he just decided to take off and look for Jillian on his own."
"I don't much like the idea of somebody we're trying to help sneaking off to get another detective behind our backs."
Frank shrugged. "He's impatient, and he's got lots of money. He probably figures the more detectives, the better. Sort of like doctors, when you get a second opinion."
They reached the second floor, opened a door, and entered a long hallway lined with office doors.
"This Nigel Hawkman you were telling me about, Frank. Do you think he - "
"Hawkins," corrected his brother. "If Larry Berman hadn't sent for us, Hawkins would have been the next person we'd have gone to see."
"The people we've questioned seem ready to swear that Jillian is honest," Joe said, frowning in thought. "But this whole business is beginning to sound like some kind of caper centering around the Cornwall girl and her emeralds."
"Here's Dickens's office." Frank nodded at a warped wooden door with a wrinkled business card tacked to it.
Joe took hold of the knob, pushing against the door. It opened inward about ten inches, then wouldn't budge. Leaning his weight into it, he got the door to open another two or three inches.
"Stuck?"
Joe poked his head through the opening. "Uh - oh. Come on, give me a hand here." He began pushing harder.
"What's blocking the door?" Frank demanded, adding his shoulder to the job of forcing an entrance.
"Just what we need," Joe answered. "A body."