Disaster for Hire (4 page)

"Yes, but I'm at a loss to imagine who that could be."

Frank said, "How about his work at the biotech lab? What was he working on when he died?"

Fawcette shook his head, breaking into a serious attack of coughing. "I'm afraid I can't go into the details on that," he explained when he got his voice back. "It's strict university policy."

"Was it a project for the government?"

"Most certainly not. Farber University avoids all such entanglements."

"Maybe," Joe suggested, "Bookman knew some valuable secret — "

"That wouldn't be a reason to kill him." The president laughed, then broke into another coughing spell. "Any alleged secret poor Bookman might have had would die with him, with no profit for anyone."

He pressed his palms to the desktop and rose from his swivel chair. "Besides, Dr. Winter, who's in charge of Professor Bookman's research group, has the same knowledge as Bookman did. No one has tried to harm him in any way."

Frank also stood up. "Then maybe the professor had a different kind of secret."

"I don't follow you."

Frank looked Fawcette in the eye. "Suppose there was a secret that someone wanted to see die with Bookman?"

Fawcette nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I see your point." Again, he coughed into his hand. "I'm afraid I know nothing like that with regard to poor Bookman."

He crossed the library and opened the door. "You have my sympathies, but I can really spare no more time this evening. As you may imagine, this weekend's homecoming events require all my attention."

"We understand." Frank stepped out into the hallway, where Emerson angrily awaited them. The old butler didn't quite look at Frank and Joe as he opened the door to let them out.

They walked in silence until they reached their car. Then Joe asked, "Why the bedtime story about Dad's taping all his phone calls, Frank?"

Frank smiled. "Look, Joe, we both know—or at least, suspect—that Fawcette is lying."

"I know he is."

"If he believes we have tapes of him and Dad talking, we might put pressure on him."

"Enough to make him tell the truth?"

"He was acting nervous and upset already." Frank got behind the wheel. "Did you notice those nervous coughs right after embarrassing questions? It won't take much more to crack him open. Maybe then we'll find out what's going on."

"Any notions on what that might be?" Joe clicked his seatbelt.

"All I can do at this point is make some guesses." Frank started the car.

"Be my guest."

"It seems likely that this whole mess has something to do with the biotech lab." They pulled out of the campus parking lot.

Joe nodded. "Both Bookman and Dr. Winter work there."

"Exactly, and Dad seems to have been suspicious of Winter. At least that's one way of interpreting what he wrote on that note we found."

"I wonder how you tie in the biotech lab with the lumber business," Joe said.

"You're reaching, pal."

"Am I?" Joe challenged. "First off, Dad's note has a guy named Curly who works for Selva Lumber. Then we meet the guy who runs the Garner lumber outfit at Fawcette's. That's the two biggest lumber companies in the Pacific Northwest."

"Could be a coincidence." Frank glanced up into the rear-view mirror.

"You don't believe in coincidences," said Joe. "How come Garner pretended Selva was some dinky setup that sold toothpicks or something?"

"Lots of businessmen put down the competition. It's not that unusual."

"Lumber," Joe said, settling back in his seat. "You hear me, Frank? There's lumber at the heart of this mystery."

Laughing, Frank said, "A couple of hours ago, you were sure it was biological weapons."

"I have an open mind," Joe told his brother. "It's capable of changing when new facts come in."

"Here's another fact for you," interrupted Frank, looking into the rear-view again. "Somebody in a dark blue sports car is following us."

Casually, Joe turned in his seat to look out the back window. A sleek sports car was rolling along half a block behind them. "You sure it's a tail?"

"Been on us since we left the parking lot," Frank said. "It followed us clear across campus."

"Tinted windows," said Joe. "You think someone doesn't want us to see who's inside?"

They passed through the arched entryway of Farber, and Frank turned onto a narrow street heading away from the center of Seattle.

Then he accelerated.

Joe took a quick look. "Still tagging us."

Frank sped along. After five blocks he said, "This ought to do it." He swung the car, tires screeching, onto a side street. Then Frank gunned the car along the quiet, dead-end block.

"They're keeping up with us."

Frank hit the brakes. With a tremendous wail, the car jerked to a stop.

Joe had opened the door and jumped to the street before the car stopped swaying.

The driver of the sports car hadn't expected the sudden stop, and hit the brakes too late. Wheels squealing, the car went into a wild fishtail, sideswiping the Hardys' car, sliding across the street, and climbing the opposite curb. The engine coughed, then died.

Joe ran to the stalled-out auto and tore open the driver's side door. "Come out with your hands high," he said, bluffing. "I've got you covered."

"Oh, really? With what—a water pistol?"

Joe blinked. "Huh?"

A slim girl of about nineteen stepped out, brushing long blond hair back from a pretty heart-shaped face. She wore jeans and a dark blue cableknit sweater.

Joe glanced into the car. There was no one else inside.

"No trouble guessing which one you are," the girl said.

"Which one - what?"

"I've heard that one Hardy is the brains and the other one is the brawn," she replied. "So far you haven't shown any trace of brains."

Joe's face tightened. "Well, I'm the Hardy who wants to know why you're following us."

"We're both interested in that." Frank now stood in front of the girl's car.

"What's going on out there?" A door to a house opened, framing a man in light. "Anybody hurt?"

"Brake failure," called Joe. "We're fine."

"Want the cops?"

"No need, we're all friends," answered Frank.

"I hope you didn't land in my wife's petunias."

"Missed by a mile," Joe called, noticing he was standing in a flower bed.

"Okay, if you don't need me, I'll go back inside," said the man. "It's right in the middle of the late show."

"Thanks a lot, sir."

Frank turned to the blond young woman. "So, you know who we are, but we don't know you."

"Suppose we keep it that way," she said.

"That gentleman offered to call the police," Frank reminded her. "Maybe it's not a bad idea."

The girl glared at him. "You're the ones who should worry about the cops, not me."

"Joe, go up and see if we can use that guy's phone to call the local law."

"Okay, don't bully me. I'm Jenny Fawcette."

Joe asked, "President Fawcette's daughter?"

"Now, that's a clever deduction," said Jenny.

"Suppose," suggested Frank, "we all agree that you're great at wise remarks and get down to business."

The girl took a deep breath. "I guess you're right," she said. "Okay, I — I'm interested in this case."

"What case would that be?" asked Frank.

"Professor Bookman's murder."

"Why were you following us?"

"I've been trying to make up my mind," she said, "whether I can trust you."

Frank straightened up, staring more closely at Jenny. "You're the girl from the island."

Jenny nodded. "I've been keeping an eye on you ever since your plane landed in Seattle."

Joe frowned at her. "Why'd you set our boat adrift and leave us marooned out there, Jenny?"

When she shook her head, her blond hair brushed her shoulders. "I didn't do that," she said.

"But you were deciding if you can trust us — why?" Joe asked with growing impatience.

"There are things I want to talk to you about," she answered.

"Such as?"

She hesitated, then looked the boys straight in the face. "For one thing, I think I know where your father is."

THE PIZZERIA WAS loud and cheerful as they stepped in. "I'll pay you for my tow," said Jenny, sitting across the booth from Frank and Joe. "I left so quickly I forgot all my charge cards."

"We're not here to talk about your car." Frank leaned his elbows on the checkered tablecloth. So did Joe. "Where's our father?"

Jenny drew a circle on the cloth with her finger. "I don't know exactly," she said, not looking up at them. "But I have an idea."

"Don't waste our time on games," Joe growled.

"Calm down," suggested his brother. "What can you tell us, Jenny?"

She sighed, not meeting his glance. "In the first place, my father did hire Fenton Hardy."

Frank's eyebrows rose.

"I know you talked with him tonight, and I expect he lied to you, saying he has no idea why your father came here. How shocked he is that a famous detective could be a killer."

"Dad's not a killer," said Joe.

"I think my father knows that too," Jenny said. "But he's covering up."

"Why?" asked Frank.

"I'm not sure. Someone's putting pressure on him," she said. "He may not be involved in anything criminal himself, but as president of the university he wants to avoid any more scandal."

"You mean," Joe said sarcastically, "he'd hate to spoil homecoming weekend by hunting for Professor Bookman's real murderer?"

Jenny looked down at her hands again. "The university isn't like the outside world. People try to hush up trouble," she said, embarrassed.

"The real world's usually like that too."

"I — I feel my father's been acting like a ... coward in all of this. He did hire your father, and he ought to admit that and explain why."

"Do you know why?"

"I know most of the reasons," Jenny said.

"Well?" Joe demanded.

"Ready to order?" asked the plump waiter who suddenly appeared beside their booth.

"Not just yet," said Frank.

"Wait," Joe said. "I could handle a sausage pizza."

"Fine," Frank said quickly. "A small pie for the three of us. And three root beers?" he said, raising an eyebrow at Jenny. She nodded.

"Right away." The waiter departed.

Frank turned back to the blond girl. "Why did your dad bring ours to Seattle?"

"About a week ago Professor Bookman visited President — visited my father," Jenny said. "He was very upset. The two of them had a long talk. I overheard part of it, but Emerson the butler came into the hall and asked me to move away."

"I bet. We met Emerson. What were they talking about?"

"Something's going on at the biotech lab."

"What was Bookman up to?" Joe asked.

"He ... wasn't up to — " Jenny stopped speaking, lowered her head, and sniffed.

Joe reached across the table to touch her hand. "Hey, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I — I just hate the whole thing — my father lying, compromising himself," she said.

"For the good of the university, as he sees it," Frank pointed out.

Jenny still wouldn't look at him. "That doesn't make what he's doing right."

"Let's get back to Bookman," Joe said.

"Professor Bookman wasn't 'up to' anything," Jenny suddenly snapped. "His daughter and I are close friends. She'd know if her dad were doing anything dishonest."

"Not necessarily dishonest," said Frank. "Just a little on the shady side, maybe."

"No, he wasn't like that."

"What did he tell Fawcette?" Joe went on.

"He said something unusual was going on at the lab — an unauthorized experiment."

"What kind of experiment?"

"With a genetically altered bacterium."

"Something lethal?"

She shrugged. "That's all I heard."

"Experiments like that couldn't go on without Dr. Winter knowing about them," Joe said.

"I guess Professor Bookman suspected that," Jenny said knowingly. "The whole thing would mean a huge scandal. So my father didn't go to the police or even the campus officials. He felt that a trustworthy private investigator was the answer."

"Enter Dad," said Joe.

"He wrote a letter and then phoned him."

Frank asked, "Do you know if Dad met with Professor Bookman?"

"Yes, more than once," she answered. "On the night the professor was killed, he and your father were supposed to meet."

"What for?"

"Professor Bookman was afraid he was being followed," Jenny said. "He stopped at a restaurant and phoned your father, hoping he could meet him there and escort him safely home."

Frank's eyes narrowed. "How do you know all that?"

"His daughter told me. He called her that night, too."

"Do you know the name of the restaurant?"

Jenny nodded. "Orlando's."

"That's right, it was mentioned in some of the newspaper stories," said Frank.

Jenny said, "I'm certain Professor Bookman was killed to keep him quiet."

"Your father probably knows as much as he did," Joe said.

"But he hasn't talked." She leaned back. "He might even be in danger—if they decide they can't keep on pressuring him into cooperating."

Joe asked, "Who are 'they'?"

"The people who killed the professor and framed your father," Jenny said. "They eliminated both their major threats."

"Eliminated?" Joe scowled. "You think they killed Dad?"

"No way." Frank's voice was cold. "They'd make sure his body was found. Dad's not dead — not yet. What worries me is that we won't find him in time."

"I'd like a look around that biotech lab," Joe suddenly said, anxious to move and act. "There could be a clue in Bookman's office, or in Dr. Winter's."

"There's got to be tight security around that place," Frank pointed out.

Jenny asked, "Would you like to go tonight?"

Joe smiled. "Sure."

"I can get you in."

Frank asked, "How can you pull this off, Jenny?"

She hesitated. "I — I used to date a boy who works in the lab," she said. "We'd meet there when he was working late."