Disaster for Hire (3 page)

"We probably should've checked it out more carefully," Frank admitted.

Joe grinned. "At least it got us this far."

"Right," Frank said, laughing. "We're a little closer to Seattle than we were."

They drifted for a while, the fog rolling over them. It was thicker now. It had a gritty feel to it.

"Frank," Joe said, breaking the silence. "I can't feel my legs anymore."

"Try kicking them."

"I have. First they turned to lead, and now — now I'm not sure they're even down there."

"You've got to move them to get the circulation going. Hey!" Frank broke off, staring off into the pea soup.

"What is it?" Joe asked, looking in the same direction.

"Something's over there. I think — yeah, it is! That's our speedboat."

"You're kidding! I can't see a thing."

"No, I'm not. It's floating right over there." He pointed to a black shadow on the dark gray horizon.

"You're right, Frank." Joe laughed. "We've been drifting in the same direction."

Frank let go of the bobbing rowboat. "I'll swim over to get it. You up to following me?"

"I can try."

Frank did a vigorous crawl and in moments was climbing over the side of their motorboat.

Joe was nearly to the boat himself when all of a sudden he cried out. "Frank!" He thrashed once with his arms and sank into the black water.

Frank knifed over the side and into the bubbles that were slowly vanishing. He hoped Joe had sunk straight below the air bubbles because once in the water he couldn't see a thing.

Just before his own sense of up and down was lost, Frank grazed something soft with his knuckles. Seaweed? No, Joe's hair.

Frank locked an arm around his brother's waist and fought his way back up to the surface with a semiconscious Joe. He forced Joe's head back and his mouth open. Gulping in air and fog, Joe coughed and nearly gagged.

Frank swam them over to the side of the boat. "Can you hold on to this rail for a minute?" he panted.

"I think I can manage," gasped Joe, reaching up.

Carefully Frank shimmied himself aboard. Then, kneeling, he hauled his brother into the boat.

Joe lay sprawled out on the seat cushions. "Thanks," he managed to say. "I don't know why I cramped."

"A BLT with garlic plus a knock on the head," Frank said, starting up the engine. "That could have something to do with it."

Frank slid in behind the wheel of their rented car. "What's that on your sweatshirt?"

"The Space Needle," answered Joe, buckling up. "Famous Seattle landmark — used to be the tallest structure in town."

"Where'd you get it?"

"At the hotel gift shop," Joe said. "I was a little low on dry clothes."

Frank backed the car out of the large hotel parking lot. "You don't know how to pack."

"I just didn't bring clothes for a quick dip in Puget Sound," Joe answered. "We're both wearing dress shoes since our sneakers went under— so you can't talk."

Frank smiled and guided the car through nighttime Seattle. "We've been lucky so far," he said. "But from now on we have to be a lot more careful."

"That's your idea of lucky? Getting shot at and almost drowning?"

"Those guys on the island," Frank said. "I've been thinking about them. Maybe they did have orders to kill us."

"Orders from whom?"

"Whoever's behind the murder of Bookman."

"Why did they run, then? You figure they're just hired hands?"

"That's my guess. They didn't seem like criminal geniuses."

Joe leaned back in his seat, the fingers of his right hand absently tapping on the seat belt stretched across his broad chest. "And who's the girl?"

"Don't know."

Joe glanced out the car window. "Over there, Frank. Look," he said, nodding. "There's the Space Needle, or at least the top of it."

The needle itself was invisible in the dark. But the top-floor restaurant was lit up and floated high up in the night sky, like an immense flying saucer.

"Interesting building," Frank said. "But I wouldn't want it on my shirt."

"You're overlooking one of the main rules of undercover work, Frank. We're supposed to blend in with the scenery," said Joe, sitting back. "In this shirt I look like an ordinary tourist."

"You certainly do."

"So, just think of it as part of a disguise."

"I'd rather not think of it at all."

Joe shrugged and turned his attention to the bright lights all around them. After they'd driven for a few silent moments, he said, "What about some kind of biological weapon?"

"Those have pretty much been outlawed," said his brother, making a left turn onto a quieter, tree-lined street.

"That doesn't mean Bookman and Winter weren't working on one on the sly," said Joe. "Once you start messing with DNA—with the basic stuff life's made of—you could think up some pretty spooky things."

"Granted," Frank said. "But a lab at a topflight private university isn't where you'd expect to find something like that going on." He slowed as they drove under a large wrought-iron archway and onto the campus of Farber University.

Joe sat up. "Does President Fawcette live right on campus?"

"In a house on the edge of it," replied Frank. "We'll park and stroll over for a little chat with him."

The university bell tower was striking ten o'clock as the boys got out of the car. "This place covers quite a few acres," he said, staring around at the tall ivy-covered buildings. He grinned. "They all look like old-fashioned banks. Except for that huge modern one over there."

"That's probably the biotech building." Frank pocketed the car keys, and the brothers started down the road to the university president's residence. The night was still foggy. Off in the woods beyond the walkway a dog started barking.

President Fawcette lived in a mansion, a two-story, white-brick house. A large, well-kept lawn fronted the house, and beyond it stretched more woodlands. A four-car garage rose up next to the house.

"Impressive place," said Joe as they strolled up the white-graveled driveway.

Lights burned in most of the downstairs windows and some of the upstairs ones also.

The Hardys climbed the brick front steps and Joe pushed the bell.

Thirty seconds passed, but no one came to answer to door chimes.

Joe took hold of the brass lion's-head knocker and gave the heavy door several enthusiastic whacks.

"Take it easy," said Frank.

Another thirty seconds went by. Then the door creaked open a bit less than six inches. "What's the meaning of all this commotion?" asked the pale, wrinkled old man who scowled out at them. He wore a bow tie and a well-pressed black suit.

"Mr. Fawcette?" asked Joe.

"Doctor Fawcette, you mean." Even more wrinkles appeared on the man's sour face. "And I am not he. I'm Emerson, the Fawcette butler."

"Well, we'd like to see Dr. Fawcette," Joe told him.

"Impossible. The president never sees students in his home after eight. Please go."

"There's been a slight mistake," put in Frank. "My brother and I aren't students."

"If you're selling something, you've made an even bigger mistake."

"We're Frank and Joe Hardy," continued Frank patiently. "President Fawcette hired our father, Fenton Hardy, to work on a case for him."

Joe nodded. "And we'd like to talk to him about it."

Emerson's perpetual frown deepened. He stared at them through the thin slice of open doorway. "What was that name again?"

"Hardy," answered Joe.

"Wait right where you are, please." Emerson scowled at Joe. "And don't make any more noise, young man." He shut the heavy door on them.

Joe shrugged. "Something tells me I failed to charm him."

"So I noticed."

In the woods, the dog barked again, farther off this time.

Five minutes went by.

When the door was opened this time, there was barely enough room for the butler to peer out with one eye. "I spoke to President Fawcette." Emerson looked almost pleased.

"He has never met your father in his life."

BEFORE THE DOOR could shut, Joe hit the oak panel hard with his shoulder. "We're coining in."

The door snapped inward, sending Emerson tottering back. "See here, you young hooligans," he said, "you must leave at once."

Joe stood defiantly in the entry way. "Dr. Fawcette has obviously made a mistake," he said. "We know our father worked for him."

"If you rowdies aren't away from here in ten seconds, I shall call the police."

"We're not rowdies or hooligans." Frank shut the door behind him. "If President Fawcette won't talk to us, we may go see the police ourselves."

"One ... two ... three ... four ... " The butler started counting off the ten seconds he'd given them.

"What's the trouble, Emerson?" A heavyset man with gray hair stepped out of a book-filled room into the front hall. He wore gray slacks and a tweed sports coat.

"It's those rowdies I told you about, sir," said the annoyed butler. "They've broken in."

Frank turned to the man. "I'm Frank Hardy. Why did you say you'd never heard of our father?"

"I never said that, young man." Fawcette frowned. "I've heard a great deal about Fenton Hardy these past few tragic days. He's done our university community a great deal of harm."

Joe's hand balled into a fist.

"Cool it, Joe," Frank whispered.

"Shall I alert the campus patrol, Dr. Fawcette?" Emerson reached for the phone.

The gray-haired university president shook his head. "I don't believe that's necessary."

"Go on, Warren, talk to these boys." A tall, tanned man of about fifty stepped into the hall. "I'm a great admirer of your father, Frank. I can't believe he'd be involved in this murder."

Frank said, "We agree on that."

"Ray Garner." The man held out his hand.

Frank shook it. "This is my brother Joe."

Joe also shook hands with the dark-suited Garner. "What's your job with the university?"

Garner grinned. "I'm just a member of the alumni association."

"You must be with Garner Enterprises, the other big lumber outfit out here," Frank said.

"That's right. My dad's president—and I run Garner Enterprises for him." Garner looked at Frank. "But what's the other big outfit?"

"Selva, isn't it? They're pretty big."

Garner chuckled. "Selva's not much of a competitor," he said. "They're strictly small-time."

"Not according to Fortune and Forbes."

Ignoring Frank's remark, Garner turned to the president. "We've finished with the homecoming plans for this weekend," he said. "So I'll go. I think you should have a little talk with these fellows."

"Yes, that's probably best, Ray."

Nodding to the Hardys, Garner walked to the door. "I'll let myself out, Emerson."

"How kind of you, sir." The butler glared at Joe as Garner headed off into the foggy night.

"Come into the library," President Fawcette told them. "I'll give you ten minutes."

Less than a minute had passed when Joe shot up from his leather armchair. "That's impossible. We know for a fact that Dad was working for you."

"Let Dr. Fawcette explain." Frank sat next to Joe, facing the university president.

Muttering, Joe sat down again.

Warren Fawcette sat behind a big wooden desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretched behind him. "As I was saying, I have long been aware of your father's reputation. And until this week I had no reason to believe he was anything but honest."

"He is honest. You can't say anything else."

"Joe."

Fawcette coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. "Let me make this perfectly clear. I have no idea what Fenton Hardy was doing here, nor what he was doing with Professor Bookman."

Frank said, "But you wrote him a letter."

"Interesting. Do you have that letter with you?" Fawcette's dry cough echoed again.

"No," admitted Frank. "Dad took it along."

"I can tell you with absolute conviction that I never communicated with your father in any way."

Joe said, "There was a check from you, an advance on his fee."

"You saw it?" Fawcette shifted in his chair.

"Dad mentioned it when it came in the mail."

Fawcette's thick gray eyebrows rose. "I don't suppose you have the check with you either?"

"Of course not," Joe answered. "Dad deposited it before he flew out here last week."

Frank's eyes narrowed, watching the university president. "There were several phone calls."

"I never spoke to your father," Fawcette assured him. "Did either of you hear these calls?"

Joe said, "Dad told us he'd talked with you."

Frank straightened in his chair. "Here we do have a record, sir," he said, grinning. "You see, our father records all his business calls."

Fawcette's dry cough began again. "And have you brought along any of these tapes?"

"We didn't think that would be necessary," Frank told him. "But we can have copies here by the day after tomorrow."

Fawcette coughed yet again. "I'd very much like to hear them," he said. "Perhaps I could identify the person behind the hoax."

"Hoax isn't a strong enough word," said Frank. "If someone lured our dad here by impersonating you, it wasn't for a practical joke."

"No, you're absolutely right, of course," admitted Fawcette. "This is much more serious."

"We're certain our father had nothing to do with Professor Bookman's death," Frank said.

"I wish I could believe that."

"Please help us," said Joe. "Is there anyone you know who'd have a reason to kill Bookman?"

"I've been over this already with the police, young man. I can think of no one with a motive." He half-smiled. "Including your father."

"You didn't ask our father to keep an eye on the professor, to protect him?" Joe pressed.

"There was no reason for such an action."

"Bookman wasn't worried or scared about something? He didn't need protection?"

"Ridiculous," said Fawcette, coughing into his hand. "Bookman was a brilliant researcher and a very popular teacher. He had no enemies."

"He had one," said Frank very steadily.