Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"He's breathing." After a brief struggle to move the door with the dead weight against it, Frank had squeaked his way through a bare sliver of doorway. Then he'd knelt down to the body lying on the floor. "I think this guy was just slugged - the same way I was."
The man he was examining lay on the hardwood floor of the small office. He was pudgy and middle-aged and had thinning reddish hair and a bushy mustache. And if anything, he had to be worse off than the seedy agent. His office didn't even have a rug.
"So this must be Bert Dickens, huh?" Joe helped his brother lift the unconscious man, carrying him over to an ancient leather couch against one wall.
As his head touched the cracked leather the man's eyes blinked. "Outsmarted me, they did," he announced in a slurred voice. "Made a total fool out of Bert Dickens."
"Take it easy," Frank cautioned. "You'd better lie still for a while, Mr. Dickens." He rubbed his own head. "I know how it feels."
Faded blue eyes took the Hardys in. "And who might you lads be?"
"I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe."
"My competition. Well, sir, I'll tell you - Bert Dickens would have been a lot better off if he'd let you two muck along in this mess on your own."
"You were working for Jed Shannon?"
Grunting, the middle-aged detective grabbed hold of Frank's arm and pulled himself to a sitting position on the swaybacked couch. "Been working for him these past two days," he said. "The lad hired me to find this missing sweetheart of his."
"Any luck?"
Dickens felt the lumps on his head, a pained expression on his face. "Doesn't look like it, now, does it?"
Frank did his best to keep a straight face. "I meant, do you have any idea of what's happened to Jillian Seabright?"
"Dead ends are all I've come up with."
Joe frowned. "But it was you who telephoned Jed Shannon this afternoon."
"That it was. This pair of blokes dropped in on me and, you might say, persuaded me to make that call."
"What did they look like?" Frank asked.
"The boss - at least he asked the questions and gave the orders - was a very natty chap. A round guy with a red face, blond, mustache, dressed like a gent."
"Sounds like the guy I met." Frank nodded. "He used a blackjack on me, too."
"No, it was the other bloke who got me," Dickens explained. "Big nasty boyo, he was, your typical thug. Maybe an ex-prizefighter, something like that. Looked like he'd been in a scrap or two in his lifetime."
"Let me guess," Joe said. "Did he have a broken nose?"
"That he did." Dickens rubbed his own face. "Thought he was going to take a crack at breaking mine."
"Maybe another old friend," Joe said. "The guy who took potshots at us the other night."
"They gave me a phone number to call," Dickens told them. "I was to say it was a real emergency to whoever answered - that I had to talk to Jed Shannon and nobody else. When he came on I was to tell him how I had important information about Jillian Seabright. I couldn't give it over the phone, and he was to rush right over here, not telling a soul." Dickens grimaced. "Sounded to me as if the lad took the bait sure enough."
"Did he come here?"
The detective started to shrug but decided it was too painful. "I have no idea. Soon as I made that call, old Thuggo went to work. Must have done a proper job to leave me slumbering away on my own floor until now."
Absorbing all the new information, Frank said, "They seemed to know Jed's plans for the day, Joe, even though we got rid of the bugs on his phone."
Joe nodded, turning to the detective. "Is there anything we can do for you? Want us to call a doctor?"
"Not right yet. I'd just like to sit for a bit and collect what's left of my wits," Dickens said. "You could do me one favor. Fetch that sign from my desk and hang it round the doorknob as you leave."
The sign read Out: To Lunch.
Joe obliged the detective, and he and Frank left the office.
Walking down the dimly lit staircase, Joe said, "I'll bet they grabbed Jed as soon as he entered this building."
"Now we have to find where they took him." Frank looked grim. "Probably the same place they have Jillian."
Joe grinned. "Try to see the bright side. At least we don't have to look for two places."
They stepped out of the building to find a new set of rain clouds washing the street.
"Still want those fish and chips, Joe?" Frank asked.
"Hard to pass up, but I'm intending to take Karen Kirk to dinner and see what she can tell me."
Joe and Frank headed for the Underground train. "I'll do a little digging on my own while you're with Karen," Frank proposed, "and catch up with you later. Where will I find you?"
"I thought we'd try Chumley's near the Strand," Joe said as they boarded the train. "You were the one who told me about it. You read about it in the guidebook. 'The historical restaurant on London's most historic street.' "
Back at the hotel, Joe grinned as his brother tossed him the car keys. "Do me a favor, okay? Don't come barging in on us until the end of the meal."
***
Chumley's restaurant consisted of three fairly large rooms. Thick oaken beams held up the ceilings, and the walls were paneled in dark wood. The windows were stained glass, and the waiters all wore tailcoats. Joe and Karen were seated at a small table in the innermost room. After the damp chill outside, the small fire crackling in the stone fireplace nearby felt welcome.
"Chumley's has been here for nearly two hundred years," Karen said, studying her menu.
"Wouldn't be surprised if our waiter has been, too." Joe was studying the pretty auburn-haired young woman sitting across from him.
Karen shut her menu and reached into her shoulder bag, which sat on the floor next to her chair. "I gathered some material for you," she said, taking out a large manila envelope and passing it to him.
Joe opened it to find a large photograph and two sheets of typed paper. "So, another picture of Emily Cornwall, huh?"
"Taken when she was eighteen. It's the only close-up shot of her anybody seems to have," Karen said. "A friend on one of the magazines made me a quick copy."
Joe frowned at the smiling face in the picture. "Now that you've seen this, do you still think she resembles Jillian?"
"They certainly are similar. If you dyed Jillian's blond hair to the same dark shade as Emily's, there'd be an amazing resemblance."
Slowly Joe placed the photo on the crisp white tablecloth. "Jillian Seabright disappears just as Emily Cornwall is about to return home and claim a very valuable necklace." He gazed up at the smoke-darkened beams in the ceiling. "Now, is that a coincidence? Or is somebody going to pull a switch - substitute Jillian for the heiress and collect the loot?"
"I'm telling you, Joe, Jillian would never willingly go along with anything like that."
"Suppose she's not willing? Maybe she's being forced to - Oh, sorry," Joe said to the waiter. "Give us a few more minutes to make up our minds, please."
Their aged, gray-haired waiter had silently appeared beside the table. "Very good, sir," the man said, and he withdrew.
"If it's a scam, we might have a line on the guy behind it," Joe said. "Does the name Nigel Hawkins ring any bells?"
Karen shook her head. "Jillian never mentioned him."
Joe started reading over the notes she'd given him. "They ought to fire whoever typed this. It has mistakes all over."
"I typed it."
Joe glanced over the top of the papers, his ears going red. "Then it's, uh, very creative. Um, especially the spelling."
"I'm not used to a manual typewriter anymore. At home I use a word processor. I took notes on everything in the files, then typed them up at the office on the only machine I could find." Karen's hands sat on the table, her fingers drumming it. "If it's not up to your high standards ... "
"Hey, it's fine," Joe said. "I'm just used to noticing details." He grinned across at her. "So when I see Beswick spelled with a z and find Emily with an i left out ..." Joe decided to change the subject. "Well, I can make out that Emily Cornwall is definitely back in England."
"She was severely injured in an auto accident three years ago in Paris," Karen said. "She was lucky. Her parents were both killed."
"That was right after she left school in Bern, Switzerland," Joe said, consulting the notes. "Emily has been recuperating in Europe ever since. Nobody in England has seen her in years."
"So it might not be impossible for an impostor to walk into the solicitor's office and claim the Talbot emeralds - which is just what Emily is supposed to do in three days."
"Well, there's this companion to consider - what's her name?" Joe went back to the papers. "Right, Miss Sheridan. She's been with the family for six years, and with Emily every day since the accident."
"Suppose someone bribed her?"
"Possible, but ... " Joe shook his head.
"How about this idea, then? The real Emily died in Europe." Karen leaned over the table, her hazel eyes sparkling with excitement. "Miss Sheridan doesn't tell anybody, because that means her salary would stop. When it comes time to collect the emeralds, she decides to bring in a ringer."
"We don't know enough about the companion, so all of this is just speculation," Joe said.
"There's also the problem of handwriting. Emily will obviously have to sign half a forest's worth of papers. You can't just stroll in and say, 'Hi, I look like Emily. Give me the gems.' "
"That's what you get for stopping after only the first page of my notes." Karen pointed to the top of the following page.
"Okay. Emily's right hand was broken in the car crash."
"So if I were going to impersonate her, I'd practice writing her signature. And if any of the lawyers said it didn't look quite right, I'd start crying a little. Then I'd remind them that I had to learn to write all over again after my awful accident."
"That might work," Joe agreed, "if she's right-handed."
"Next paragraph."
Joe read on. " 'Emily Cornwall is right-handed.' " He nodded. "Okay, it all seems to fall together. But we have to make sure we're not just jumping to conclusions. Jillian may have disappeared for entirely different reasons."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Sure, what?"
"Let's order dinner," Karen said, "and not talk about any of this until we're finished."
They did exactly that. About two hours later they left Chumley's.
"What's your next move on this case?" Karen asked Joe.
He took her hand. "I want to talk it over with Frank," he said. "But I think a ride down to the village of Beswick would be a good idea."
Karen nodded. "I'll bet Jillian's down there, being kept against her will."
A fat raindrop splattered on the sidewalk next to them. More started falling in a sudden cloudburst. Joe glanced unhappily at the car, parked about two hundred feet away. "Maybe if we run ... "
He set off, but Karen called, "Wait! I've got an umbrella in here somewhere."
Joe turned back to watch her start digging through her shoulder bag.
Behind him, the car exploded with a fiery roar.
It seemed to be raining fire and jagged chunks of metal as well as water.
Joe leapt for Karen, pulling her to the soggy sidewalk, shielding her body with his. The world seemed strangely silent after the blast.
"Are you okay?" Joe finally got his vocal cords to work.
"Y - yes," Karen managed. "Boy, you moved pretty fast, Did you get hurt?"
"Not as far as I can tell." Still on his knees, Joe glanced at the wreckage of the car. Flames were playing around it, and the rain sizzled on the hot metal. "Looks like the bad guys are really playing hardball now."
Suddenly he was on his feet, half-crouched. The sound of running footsteps echoed in the fog. They could make out a blurred figure approaching.
"Everything all right?" Frank asked, skidding to a halt. He'd been heading toward the restaurant when the sound of the sudden explosion tore through the fog.
Joe helped Karen up. "Well, my hair feels like it's standing on end, and my ears are ringing worse than the last time we went to a rock concert. But outside of that, I don't think I have any problems."
Frank started back the way he came. "Then let's get away from here."
"Won't the police want to talk to you about your exploding automobile?" Karen asked.
"That's exactly why we have to make a getaway. We don't have anything solid to hand to the law right now. And we don't have time to waste, either."
Joe turned to Karen. "You up to some brisk hiking?"
She grinned. "Sure. All I seem to have is a few scrapes and bruises - and one ruined raincoat."
People with umbrellas were starting to appear, coming from restaurants and pubs. They surrounded the ruins of the car. Frank, Joe, and Karen turned their backs on the spectacle and slogged off in the rain.
"So where do we go from here?" Karen asked.
"I think it's time for a trip to beautiful Beswick," said Frank.
Joe grinned. "Just what I was about to suggest myself."
***
The three of them were able to catch the final train for Beswick that night. When they were settled into a compartment, Frank said, "What's the scoop, guys?"
From inside his coat Joe took the envelope Karen had given him. "Some background material on Emily Cornwall."
Studying the picture, Frank asked, "Does Jillian look like this?"
"Quite a bit," Karen admitted.
"So she could definitely impersonate the Cornwall girl." Frank turned his attention to the typewritten notes.
"But Jillian wouldn't do it - not just to make money," Karen said.
Joe chimed in with the theories that he and Karen had shared over the dinner table.
"There's a third possibility," Frank said, still reading. "Suppose Nigel Hawkins came to Jillian. She knows him as a movie producer. He tells her he's planning a film based on the life of an heiress like Emily. He auditions her, maybe gets her to pose for some photos in a dark wig."
"That would have worked." Karen, who was sharing a seat with Joe, suddenly hugged herself as if she'd gone cold. "I suppose Hawkins saw her someplace, in her play or on television, and realized how much she looked like Emily."
"He could even have gotten her out of town without telling her what he really wanted her to do." Joe stared out at the fog-shrouded countryside rushing past. "He could have warned her not to tell anyone she was being considered for this big part."
Frank set the pages and the picture on the seat beside him. "Which brings us to what I did tonight while you were feeding your faces," he said. "I paid a visit to Nigel Hawkins's offices. As I expected, he wasn't there. In fact, he hadn't been there for a while. The place was shut up tight."
Joe sighed. "Another dead end."
"Not exactly," Frank said. "I made a new friend - the concierge who takes care of the office building. He had a temporary forwarding address for Mr. Hawkins's mail - Beswick."
Karen sat up straight. "Beswick - where Emily Cornwall is supposed to be staying."
"Where Jillian Seabright may be," Joe added.
"And Jed Shannon," Karen said. "You know, if Hawkins had him, he could force Jillian to go through with that scam of his. Do the job or he'll hurt Jed."
"That could work, sure," Frank conceded.
"Hawkins may have his troops at Beswick," Joe said.
"There's the dapper gent with the blackjack, the guy with the broken nose - and probably lots of others who'll play rough." Frank frowned.
"The violence is getting worse and worse. We've gone from warning shots and threatening notes to beatings and car bombs." Joe's face was grim. "If the timing had been a little different, Karen and I would have been blown up tonight."
"I don't think so," his brother said.
"Hey, that car was totaled," Joe protested. "Anybody sitting in it - "
"That's my point, Joe. You weren't in it. These guys seem pretty efficient. They wouldn't set a bomb to go off at random, just hoping you'd be in the car at the time."
Karen leaned forward, resting her palm on her knee. "You're saying that the explosion was meant simply as another warning?"
"I'd guess that one of Hawkins's boys was watching. When he spotted you heading for the car, he detonated the bomb electronically from a safe distance."
"Risky," Joe objected. "They couldn't be sure that a fender wouldn't crack my skull - or the engine block wouldn't break Karen's neck."
"Ouch," she said, rubbing her neck.
"Oh, they're not saints, Joe. But they basically only wanted to scare us. If somebody got killed, well, that was too bad. But it wouldn't stop them from going ahead with their plans."
"Wait a second," Joe said. "To plant a bomb in the car, they had to know where Karen and I were having dinner."
"I've been thinking about that." Frank was poker-faced. "They had to have somebody shadowing you."
"I usually spot tails."
"Well, you didn't this time - we'll all need to be especially careful."
Joe drummed the fingers of his left hand on the seat, looking again out of the window of the onrushing train.
After a few seconds of silence, Karen burst out, "There's another way they could have known. Why not mention it?"
"What?" Joe looked uncomfortable.
"I could have phoned them from the restaurant," she said. "After all, I did leave the table to visit the restroom."
"Hey," said Joe, "we all trust each other."
"Does Frank trust me?"
Frank met her stare. "Yes, Karen. I didn't bring up the possibility, because I do trust you. Okay?"
"I guess so."
After a few minutes of silence, Joe shifted in his seat. "Do they have a dining car on this train?"
"I'd think so," Karen said.
"Let's go find it. I need a soda - something to drink. We won't be in Beswick for nearly three hours, and nothing will be open by then."
"Not interested." Frank picked up the material on Emily Cornwall.
"Karen?"
"Not yet, Joe. After nearly getting blown up, I just want to sit back and take it easy."
"Well, I think I'll go foraging for supplies." Joe hesitated for a second in the doorway. "Can I bring anything back?"
Both Frank and Karen shook their heads.
"Then I'll see you in a while." Joe slid the door open and stepped into the corridor of the swaying train.
He'd gotten through two cars when his path was blocked by a little old lady carrying a covered basket. She was standing by a door that led out into the night in an otherwise empty stretch of corridor.
The train was passing through a less-settled section of countryside. The fog was thinning, but there wasn't much to see outside the glass window in the door. Joe saw only dark fields and an occasional distant light.
"Thank goodness!" The elderly woman's voice had a strange quavering tone as she called to Joe. "Could you help me, young man?"
"What's the problem, ma'am?"
"These silly spectacles. Could you hold my hamper for a moment?"
"Sure, I'd be glad to." Joe took the basket, which turned out to be unexpectedly heavy.
"Thank you so much." The woman removed her rimless glasses and pulled a tissue from her pocket. She breathed on the lenses, bending over to do the job carefully. All Joe could see was wild gray hair peeking from beneath a patterned head scarf. Joe was amazed that such a frail-looking person could manage the heavy load she was toting. What did she have in there? Books? Bricks?
"That's much better." The woman slipped on her glasses and looked up at Joe with surprisingly young-looking eyes. She lifted the lid of the basket Joe was holding and yanked out a MAC-10 submachine gun.
Backing away, the old woman pointed the gun at Joe's chest. "Time for you to get off the train."
Joe stared. "But it's still moving."
The gun barrel poked him in the chest as his captor nodded. "That's exactly the idea."