Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Fenton laughed. "Anyway, we haven't got much choice," he agreed.
There was a pause. "How about meeting us in front of the Houseman Building?" Frank said. "You know, the one that looks like a palace. We'll find a place to park in that block or the next one."
Joe made good time. He was almost to the rendezvous, pedaling hard, when another bike pulled alongside.
"Feel like racing, Hot Dog?"
Joe turned quickly. It was Slim, his messenger's bag slung over his shoulder. "Hi, Slim," he said loudly, hoping that Frank was picking up the conversation. "Headed back to the office?"
Slim shook his head. "Nope. Got a pickup down on Wall Street. Want some company?"
Great, Joe thought blackly. Just what I need. A tail. It suddenly occurred to him that if Frank's suspicions about Slim were right, Slim might be supervising this delivery.
"Sure," Joe replied casually. "Anybody else around? Maybe we can convoy."
Just then Joe saw the van turn onto the street a block ahead. He was almost at the rendezvous. Joe gritted his teeth. Would Frank show himself to Slim and blow both their covers? The van stopped at a light.
"I see we have a problem," Frank said in Joe's headset. Joe breathed a sigh of relief. At least Frank was on top of the situation.
"Listen carefully," Frank continued. "Dad's driving. At the next corner he'll make a right turn and cut you off. You raise a ruckus, and he'll jump out and pick a fight with both of you. While he's got Slim's attention, you drop the package through the window onto the seat. I'll put it back when I'm done with it, and you can pick it up. Got it?" He paused. "If you read me, tell Slim that you hope the sun comes out."
Joe turned to Slim as they rode through the next intersection. "You know, Slim," he said fervently, "I sure hope the sun comes out." And I sure hope that Dad knows how to time that right turn, he added to himself. If he doesn't, I'll know how a mashed potato feels.
Half a block later Joe came up behind the van as if to pass on the inside. Slim was a couple of lengths behind. As they reached the corner, the van turned abruptly, hitting Joe's bike lightly and forcing him to the curb. With a shout of rage, Joe slapped his palm against the side of the van.
"Hey, stupid!" he shouted. "Why don't you watch where you're going?"
The van braked. Seconds later Fenton Hardy came around the front, his hands clenched into fists. Slim had skidded to a stop just behind Joe.
"You crazy kid," Mr. Hardy shouted. "Don't you know better than to pass on the inside? There's a law against that, you know. I ought to call the cops!"
"Crazy kid?" Joe shouted, stepping up to challenge him. "Where'd you learn to drive? A demolition derby?"
"You never signaled your turn," Slim interjected, glaring at Mr. Hardy. "Go ahead, call the cops, pal. See who gets the ticket."
As Slim was talking to Fenton Hardy, Joe saw his chance. With a fluid motion, he drew the package out of the messenger bag and keeping his body between Slim and the van, dropped the package behind him through the open window.
"Who asked you to butt in?" Mr. Hardy was advancing on Slim. A curious crowd was gathering on the sidewalk. "You bike jockeys are a menace to public safety. The cops ought to dump you all in the East River."
Somebody on the sidewalk yelled, "You tell 'em, fella! Those bikes are a hazard!"
"You're asking for it, old man," Slim said, starting to get off his bike.
"Come on, punk," Mr. Hardy said, stalling for time. "Put your muscle where your mouth is."
Slim, enraged, walked toward Mr. Hardy, his fist cocked. Joe looked nervously at his father, but Mr. Hardy seemed to have everything under control. While his face maintained the cocky arrogance of a street brawler, his cool eyes darted calculatingly toward the van.
"Hold on, Slim," Joe said forcefully, putting out a restraining hand. He glanced around at the hostile crowd. While some onlookers appeared to be angered by Mr. Hardy's belligerence, most were eager to see a reckless bicycle messenger get his due. Joe was beginning to feel like a guest at a lynching. "Let's cool it," he said.
Slim looked toward the crowd. "Yeah, I see what you mean, man." He sounded intimidated. "This could be a bad scene."
Joe turned to his father. "Look, mister, let's forget it. The cops are gonna be on both of us soon."
Mr. Hardy hesitated, then looked critically at Joe. "I guess we can call it even."
The three relaxed, and Joe squatted down, pretending to check out his bike. "Looks okay to me, Slim," Joe said. "Listen, why don't you go on? No point in both of us being late with our runs. I can handle it from here."
"You sure?" Slim said, glancing nervously at Mr. Hardy and the crowd.
Joe nodded. "See you later." He and Mr. Hardy watched Slim pedal out of sight as the crowd broke up.
Frank climbed out of the van and handed Joe the package, perfectly rewrapped.
"Maybe you should go into show business," Joe said to his father, tucking the package back into his bag and mounting his bike. " 'Put your muscle where your mouth is!' Whew!" Mr. Hardy laughed as he and Frank climbed back into the van and started the engine.
"Okay," Joe said into his transmitter, as he started off. "So what is in the package?"
"Some sort of circuit board," Frank said. "From what I could see, it didn't look like a production model, so it's probably a prototype. You can look at it later and tell me what you think."
"Look at it later?" Joe asked. He slowed to avoid a pedestrian. "But I've got to hand it over to somebody at MUX in a few minutes."
"True," Frank said. There was a nod of satisfaction in his voice. "But I took some nice-closeups with the video camera. We've got it on tape!"
The address on the package led Joe into a rundown neighborhood only a few blocks east of the docks of the Hudson River. The street was lined with seedy little shops and empty stores, some of which had been converted into warehouse space. He came to the street number that matched the address on the package. The building looked empty.
Joe knocked on the front door. No answer. He pounded with his fist. After a minute he heard someone move inside. Slowly the door opened, and the expressionless, hostile face of an Asian man stared out at him.
"Is this MUX, Incorporated?" Joe asked. He couldn't imagine a legitimate corporation doing business here. "I've got a package to deliver to this address."
Without a word, the man reached for the package. He inspected it carefully, then began to shut the door.
"Hey, wait a minute," Joe said, putting his foot in the door. "You have to sign for that." He held out a clipboard. "Do you work for MUX?"
The door opened. The man grabbed the clipboard and scribbled a signature on it, then thrust it back. The door closed with a bang.
Joe studied the signature for a minute. It was totally unreadable. He got back on his bike and rode off, his head spinning with questions. Who was the strange character he'd just delivered the package to? Why would an up-and-coming corporation like MUX do business in a place like this? And why would a girl like Tiffany Chilton send a package to a major competitor?
Joe was brought out of his reverie by a voice.
"What's happening, dude?" demanded Lightfoot, who had pulled up beside him. Joe was almost back at SpeedWay. "You look like you're lost in the clouds."
Joe grinned back without replying. Was this another escort?
Suddenly a scream came from behind them.
"Stop him! He's got my purse."
Joe turned to see a young kid running through the crowd, his left hand clutching a bright red purse, the broken strap fluttering behind him. "Want to nail that guy?" he asked Lightfoot. "Why not?" Lightfoot kicked off. As Joe pumped after him, Lightfoot swerved around pedestrians, hopped a curb, whipped right past the purse snatcher, and turned to cut him off.
That's when he—and Joe—realized what was in the punk's right hand. The thief hadn't torn the purse strap loose, he'd cut it.
And now he was pointing the knife at Lightfoot!
Joe could see sunlight gleaming on the knife blade as he came flying up. There was only one thing he could do. Joe turned slightly to come in on the guy's side.
The guy glanced over when he heard Joe coming up. But he was still only half turned as Joe rammed into him.
Joe and his bike parted company, but Joe was ready for that. He even managed to land on his feet.
The punk wasn't ready at all. He slammed into the pavement, his knife clattering as it fell from his hand. Joe quickly kicked it into a storm sewer, then retrieved the handbag.
The punk tried to get up, but Joe loomed over him. "If you know what's good for you, stay down there."
Pushing through the gathering crowd, the owner of the purse darted forward. "Thanks for saving — Hey, Joe Hardy! 'Crimebusting' as usual, I see."
Horrified, Joe looked into a familiar face — Sally Gray. Of all the times to meet someone from Bayport! "I'm not Joe Hardy," he told her. "My name's Kincaid." He was all too aware of Lightfoot staring at his back.
"What's going on?" Sally demanded. She lowered her voice a little. "Are you on a case?"
Joe shot her a look, pleading with her to shut up. Then he heard a police siren. Several people had gone into the street to flag the patrol car down.
Lightfoot looked nervous. "Hey, man," he said, "cops and I don't get along. You want to be a hero, you sit on this guy." He hopped on his bicycle and was gone.
"Come on, Joe," Sally said as the police came up. "Are you undercover or something?"
Joe sighed. "I was."
He gave a statement to the police, who took the purse snatcher away. Then Joe headed for SpeedWay. As he pulled up at the office, he noticed all the messengers gathered out front. They looked as if they were waiting for someone. Were they waiting for him?
»Hey' Gus" somebody called, "he's back." "Kincaid!" Gus shouted angrily from behind his desk. "Get over here!"
Joe went over to the desk. The rest followed him into the room and stood silently ringing the walls. Gypsy came in and stood by the door, all by herself.
"Slim says you were in an accident," Gus snapped. "Why didn't you report it immediately?"
"Well, it wasn't much of an accident," Joe mumbled. "I mean, I didn't think — "
"That's right!" Gus snapped. "You didn't think! First thing you do when you have an accident is report it. There're all kinds of assorted jerks looking to file a lawsuit if a bike so much as brushes them."
"He made up for it, though," Lightfoot said. "Hot Dog caught a purse snatcher. He's a real concerned citizen."
"Shut up!" Gus glared from Lightfoot to Joe.
Joe swallowed. Was Gus mad enough to fire him? "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry. I — "
But Gus ignored him. "That goes for the rest of you, too," he snarled at the other messengers. "I'm firing the next jerk who has an accident and doesn't report it pronto. And it'd better be the other guy's fault, too. Don't you read the newspapers? The mayor says messenger bikes are a hazard. If we give him half a chance, he'll run us off the streets and we'll all be out of a job. So keep your noses clean."
Apollo grunted. "How're we going to make a dime if we don't keep moving?" he said in a voice too low for Gus to hear. "We get paid by the trip—and peanuts, at that. If we can't cut a few corners, we might as well walk."
"If you're smart, you'll make it," Joe heard Lightfoot say quietly to Apollo. "So why don't you get smart?"
Apollo was glaring at Lightfoot. "How many times I got to tell you, man? I don't go for your kind of action!"
Joe noticed that Gypsy was listening to Lightfoot with a thoughtful look on her face. When she caught Joe watching her, she turned away.
Gus slammed his hand on the desk. "Everybody got the message?" he barked. "Back to work, all of you!"
Joe started down the steps. Now, while everybody was inside, might be a good chance to bug those other bikes.
***
Frank drove into the parking garage behind World-Wide Technologies and pulled into the second-floor space Mr. Chilton had directed him to use. After the accident a half-hour earlier, Fenton Hardy had called Chilton to tell him they'd intercepted a piece of World-Wide hardware and needed to identify it.
"There he is," Mr. Hardy said as Mr. Chilton got out of the elevator and moved toward them. He was accompanied by a tall woman in a gray suit.
"It's going to be a tight fit for four of us in here," Frank said, opening the van door.
"This is Louise Trent," Mr. Chilton said. "She's our chief designer. She knows more about our products than anyone else. Louise, these gentlemen are investigating the thefts. They want you to identify a piece of hardware."
After everybody had squeezed into the van, Frank squatted in front of the VCR and inserted the tape he'd made. Seconds later the screen was filled with the image of something that looked like a circuit board. A hand moved the board, revealing the component from several angles.
Ms. Trent sucked in her breath sharply. "That's the prototype of our new M twenty-seven board," she said. She turned on Frank, her voice sharp. "Where did you get this video?"
Frank threw an uneasy look at his father. Fenton Hardy spoke slowly, deliberately. "We can't reveal our source without harming our investigation. We have a strong suspect. But there are special problems in revealing this person's identity until we're absolutely sure."
Frank looked at Mr. Chilton, wondering what he'd say if he knew that the suspect was his own daughter.
Mr. Chilton's voice was tight. "Are you implying that this person is in a position of trust at World-Wide?"
Mr. Hardy nodded.
"I'm very close to all my top people," Mr. Chilton said, his jaw working. "They're just like members of my family. I can't believe one of them would betray me." He swallowed. "Yes, you're right. Don't tell me until you're sure."
"What we really wanted to know," Frank said, "is whether this component is critical. That is, that this wasn't just a case of somebody picking up a free sample." He turned to Ms. Trent. "You're sure of your identification?"
Ms. Trent nodded. "Of course I'm sure. I designed it. See that?" She pointed to a dark rectangle in the upper corner of the screen. That's the Z twenty-seven thirteen'chip. I'd know it anywhere."
"Then this single component could cost you a lot of business if the wrong people got hold of it."
"That's right," Mr. Chilton said. "What's valuable here is the design. The components are all off the shelf — you can buy them at the corner electronics store." He tapped the screen. "But if they have this, they can set up a production line in a week and beat us to the market. And they can undersell us, if they have cheap labor. Then we'd be in real trouble."
Frank and his father looked at each other. Mr. Chilton intercepted the look and nodded at Ms. TVent. "Thanks, Louise," he said. "That's all."
When the chief designer had gone, Mr. Hardy turned to Mr. Chilton. "I know that our primary objective is to identify the spy," he said. "But shouldn't we also try to legally force MUX out of this line of business?"
"I wish we could. But that's what's so frustrating. We don't know a thing about them. They came out of nowhere."
"What does M-U-X stand for?" Mr. Hardy asked.
"Maybe it's not an acronym," Frank suggested. "Isn't the word mux an abbreviation for the word multiplexer?"
Mr. Hardy looked puzzled. "What's that?"
"It's a communications switching device," Mr. Chilton said.
"A network controller," Frank added thoughtfully. Network controller. It sounded like a name that might have several meanings.
Mr. Chilton shook his head. "The corporation's a mystery," he said. "Even our marketing people can't tell us a thing about it."
Mr. Hardy snapped his fingers. "I know somebody who can," he said. "He's a stockbroker who's made a fortune finding skeletons in corporate closets. Frank can go talk to him and find out what he knows about MUX."
Maxwell Harris was an owlish-looking little man with wire-rimmed glasses. As Frank walked up behind him, he was staring intently at a video monitor on the desk in his Wall Street office. On a wall screen above his head, a ribbon of stock prices unrolled.
"Mr. Harris," Frank said. "I'm Frank Hardy."
"Oh, yes," the little man replied, without looking up from the screen. "Be with you in a minute." Several number displays flashed on the screen in rapid succession. A look of satisfaction appeared on Maxwell Harris's face. He cleared the screen and turned to Frank.
"Your father said you're after some background information." He gave Frank a curious look. "Something about industrial espionage."
Frank nodded. "The suspect company's name is MUX, Inc. It may have a storefront operation on the Lower West Side. But that's all we know."
"Mm - m - m." Mr. Harris seemed lost in thought. "Ah, yes, MUX. The new competitor in the electronics industry that's giving the domestic guys fits." He frowned. "I don't recall seeing MUX traded publicly. Why don't I look into it and give you a call? Where can I reach you?"
Frank gave him the van's mobile phone number. "We're in kind of a hurry, sir," Frank said hesitantly. He had hoped to walk out with at least a mailing address. "You think I could wait until—"
"These things take time, son," he interrupted. "Even with our computer system it could take up to an hour. I'll call you the minute I find something. Oh, and give your father my regards. He got me out of a tough spot last year — some phony inside trading charges. I won't forget him."
Frank nodded, thanked Harris, and turned to go. As he looked back, he saw that the little man was again engrossed in his screen.
Back in the van and out in traffic, Frank chided himself for being so impatient. If he didn't watch it he'd start acting as impulsively as Joe. Thinking of Joe, he realized he'd better check in with him.
But that was unsuccessful, too. Joe must be inside somewhere. Frank turned on the screen he'd mounted below the dash to check on Lightfoot. He'd programmed the grid of Manhattan streets on the screen. A quick glance revealed Lightfoot's blip—but it was stationary. He was at SpeedWay.
Just then the van's phone buzzed. To Frank's surprise, it was Maxwell Harris.
"I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," Frank said, negotiating a left turn. "Do you have something?"
"Yes," Mr. Harris said. "Well, yes and no. What I have is a very suspicious nothing.
"That corporation you asked about—MUX?" Harris continued briskly. "This may sound strange, but there's no such company!"