Read The Deadliest Dare Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Joe was in luck—or so he thought.
The boys had split up. Frank's job was to find the industrialist Willis Gramatkee and warn him that Curt Branders was in town, ready to use him for target practice.
Joe, in the meantime, was to head to the old barn where the Circle was holding its emergency meeting and get Biff away. Jeanne, with Aunt Gertrude watching over her, was remaining at the Hardy home. Once Joe called in with the good news about Biff, they were supposed to alert the cops.
Leaving the van a safe distance from the abandoned apple orchard, Joe moved quietly through the night-darkened fields. Then he cut through the orchard itself.
Up ahead stood a big ramshackle barn. The light of several candles showed, flickering, inside the deep shadows of the old structure.
Then Joe had his lucky break.
Something — someone passed between him and the candles in the barn. Joe ducked behind a tree. Peering around it, he made out two robed figures.
"Come on, Chad, we're late."
"In a minute. I'm not going to break my neck because Kevin Branders says so."
"Kevin won't like that."
"Well, too bad. Who died and left him boss?"
The other figure sounded dubious. "I don't know, Chad. Look what happened to Jeanne Sinclair."
"Maybe Branders can get away with pushing girls around, but just let him try me. Everyone says I'm the best boxer at Chartwell."
Oh, please, Joe said to himself.
"Fine—but I'm going in. See you inside, Chad."
"Yeah, yeah, Willie."
Very carefully Joe moved closer, darting from apple tree to apple tree.
Chad was a lean, dark-haired young man of about eighteen. Joe didn't know him. He was standing at the edge of the orchard, about to slip his black hood on.
Joe made a quick decision.
Then he went walking right up to him. "Hey, Chad," he said.
"Huh?" Chad started to turn. "Who — "
Joe punched him twice, short jabs to the chin.
Chad wobbled, moaned once, and then his eyes rolled up and closed, and he fell to the weedy ground.
"Sorry about that, Chad," Joe said. "I guess the boxing class at Chartwell hasn't gotten up to that move yet."
Swiftly Joe tugged off the kid's robe. He used Chad's belt to tie his arms around a tree and improvised a gag out of his sweater.
A moment later Joe had on the robe and the hood and was walking into the meeting of the Circle.
There were only nine others standing in the ragged circle made by the candles planted on the rough stone floor of the beat-up old barn. Six of them were boys, three, girls. Joe scanned the circle. One guy was much taller and stockier than the others — something even the black robe couldn't disguise. That had to be Biff. Now to move over to him . . .
But just as Joe took a place at the edge of the group, one of the hooded figures moved to the center of the circle, where a glass bowl was resting on an overturned apple barrel.
The guy raised his right hand. "Brothers and sisters," he began, and Joe recognized the voice as that of Kevin Branders. "Brothers and sisters of the Crimson Circle of Twelve, we have been summoned here tonight because our group faces a grave and most serious challenge."
Joe shifted from one foot to the other, trying to see if he recognized any of the other masked figures.
"In order to grow and thrive," continued Kevin, "a group, like the trees in this orchard, must be pruned and cut from time to time. Better that one dies than have the group perish. So I suppose you should know that this very day we have had — a pruning."
Joe swallowed hard, looking around the circle of kids. He couldn't see their faces beneath the hoods. But just from the way most of them were standing, he could tell that they were scared out of their minds.
"We had traitors in our group," Kevin went on. "People who lost their nerve, who would have turned us over to the police. They left messages and even gave away the place of our headquarters."
Worried murmurs rose from the hooded kids.
"We've taken care of the problem," Kevin cut in, calming them down. Hidden by his hood, Joe smiled. Let Kevin think that.
"But there's still more treachery to be punished." Joe's shoulders tightened as Kevin's voice rose. "Believe it or not, we have a spy right here in our midst."
He turned to point an accusing finger right at him. "Don't we, Joe Hardy?"
All the members of the Circle whirled toward Joe as he yanked off his hood. "You clowns may as well quit playing this game right now," he told them, deciding to bluff. "The police know all about you. They're—" "Get him," Kevin ordered. The two nearest figures grabbed for Joe's arms as he started to dart away. He wasn't used to the robe — it slowed him down for a crucial second. Then he was mobbed.
Joe struggled desperately, blocking punches, returning a few. But there were five guys beating on him—even Biff had joined in.
"Biff," shouted Joe. "You don't have to do what these bozos tell you anymore. They kidnapped Jeanne. But I got her out!" The big figure he'd assumed was Biff didn't stop punching, but he did start laughing. Joe managed to get one arm free and grabbed for Biff. His hand caught in the big guy's hood, tearing it away as someone yanked him off balance.
The hood came off—but Biff's face wasn't under it. With a sinking sensation, Joe recognized the face grinning at him. It was the guard Joe had slugged back at the warehouse.
"I don't think I'm going to like this," Joe muttered.
With the others holding his arms, Joe watched the guard wind up for a knockout punch.
"You got it, punk."
The last thing Joe saw was an enormous fist, blotting everything out as it came toward his face.
***
Frank screeched to a halt on the drive of the Gramatkee estate, jumped out, and slammed the door of the van. He ran along the flagstone path leading to the Gramatkee mansion, then flew up the steps two at a time.
He saw lights shining in most of the first-floor windows of the large modern glass-and-redwood home. Maybe his quest would end quickly. Frank jabbed the doorbell.
Chimes rang inside the big house, but nothing else happened.
Frank knocked on the door with his fist.
A minute more passed. Then the door opened a couple of inches. "Yes? What do — Hey, Frank Hardy!"
He didn't recognize the slender red-haired girl who smiled out at him. She was pretty, about his age, and obviously knew him. Maybe that would help him. "Is Mr. Gramatkee at home?" Frank asked. "You don't recognize me, do you?" "Not actually, no. Look, it's important that I — "
"Sandy Fuller. I met you last Christmas at that dance over in Kirkland."
"Sandy, I have to see Mr. Gramatkee." "He isn't here. You were with Callie Shaw, and I had a date with this real nerd named — " "Where is he?"
"That nerd? I haven't seen him since that party." "No—where's Gramatkee?" "I'm baby-sitting the two children. Mrs. Gramatkee is in Paris."
"Sandy, this is life and death — where's Gramatkee?"
"Down on his yacht. He goes there by himself once a week to be alone." The red-haired girl shrugged her shoulders. "The name of the boat is the Golden Fleece, and it's moored in Bayport Harbor. Are you serious about this life-and-death stuff?" "I'll tell you later, Sandy. Thanks for your help." Frank ran down the steps, hopped back into the van, and drove off.
He had a stiff drive ahead of him — the yacht harbor was over ten miles from there.
Frank didn't need to be a detective to tell that something was wrong at the yacht club.
The gate in the cyclone fence that cut off the yacht harbor from the rest of the waterfront hung open. In the guard shack just inside the gate a lean, weather-beaten man lay on the floor, tied, gagged, and out cold.
Frank picked up the lamp that had been knocked off the desk and knelt beside the guard. At least the man was breathing regularly.
"I'll have to cut you loose on the way back," he promised the unconscious man. "Right now I have to see about stopping a murder."
He ran along the planks of the dock. Various-size boats were moored along it, bobbing gently. None looked like a millionaire's yacht, but out in the dark waters of the harbor he saw three large boats anchored.
The roar of a motor launch coming to life brought Frank to the end of the dock, just in time to see a craft heading for the biggest of the yachts. He recognized the big guy at the wheel — Biff Hooper.
"Biff!" he called through cupped hands. "Wait!"
But Biff didn't hear him. The launch circled the well-lit yacht and disappeared around its other side.
That ship must be Gramatkee's Golden Fleece, Frank concluded. Biff's going aboard right now. And unless I can do something, he may get tangled up in a murder.
Frank pivoted and ran for the other side of the marina. What I need now is a boat of my own, he thought.
Running along wooden catwalks that shifted with the tide, Frank worked his way toward a slip where a small white speedboat bobbed in the water. Blue letters across its stern read Napoli.
Lucky I remembered Tony Prito keeps a boat here, Frank thought as he hauled up one of the plastic bumpers that kept the boat from scraping against the dock. And even luckier that I know where he keeps the spare key. In moments Frank was heading out into the bay.
A few moments after that, Frank was climbing a rope ladder that hung down the side of the huge yacht. There was a strong brackish smell in the night air, and a faint, ghostly white mist was drifting in from the sea. Frank shivered as he climbed on deck.
He froze for a moment, standing still to listen. His ears caught the creak of ropes and the lapping of the water but not a single human sound.
Carefully Frank started along the deck toward where he judged Gramatkee's cabin would be. Frank carried a flashlight in his right hand.
I wonder how Kevin talked Biff into this, Frank thought as he made his way forward. It must have something to do with Jeanne. Maybe Kevin promised Biff that if he came out to the yacht, he'd find Jeanne.
Obviously Biff would never let himself get involved in any kind of big crime. Kevin must have conned him to come out to the Golden Fleece so he could be the fall guy for Gramatkee's murder.
Dim light shone around the door of one of the cabins. Frank didn't knock. He simply turned the knob and pushed it open. "Mr. Gramatkee, I — "
The center of the cabin was taken up by a desk. Its small brass lamp provided the only light in the cabin. Slumped at the desk was a heavyset man of sixty.
Frank went over to him.
When he got close enough to the sprawled body, he discovered that Gramatkee was alive. The millionaire had obviously been slugged — there was a welt over his left ear.
Frank saw Biff Hooper now, too. The big blond guy had fallen unconscious behind the desk. One big arm was draped over the overturned wastebasket.
Frank dropped to one knee. "Biff — Biff, are you okay?"
"He's just fine, Frank. They both are."
Behind him in the shadows was Curt Branders. The hit man's Beretta automatic was pointed at Frank.
Branders smiled.
"No one is dead—yet."
Joe woke up to find himself lying on the cold floor of the old barn. His face was bruised, his sides ached, and his hands were tied behind his back. Two fat candles sputtered away on the stones near his feet.
"So you're not that smart after all, are you?" Kevin Branders was dressed in jeans and a dark sweater now, sitting on the apple barrel and smirking down at Joe.
"Still a bit smarter than you," answered Joe, finding it tough to talk clearly through his swollen upper lip.
"We suckered you in very nicely, I think," continued Kevin, looking at his wristwatch. "And—it was great—you fell for the whole scam. Clever Joe Hardy sneaks up on unsuspecting Chad, the dumb Circle member.
"He knocks Chad out and takes his place. I mean, who could outwit Joe Hardy, the smartest detective in Bayport." He laughed loudly. "We figured one of you, or maybe both, would come out here. So we had everyone planted and waiting. How'd you like my speech? I bet you thought you were eavesdropping on some real heavy mumbo jumbo, huh?" "Okay, maybe I didn't show my usual brilliance," Joe admitted. "But that doesn't mean any of you guys are especially smart. Listen, the police know all about you. Any minute now, they'll — "
"I don't believe the great Hardys would call in the law," Kevin told him. "No, I think you wanted the chance to show off, to bust in here, and capture the fiendish gang on your own. Hey, I'm always reading about your cases in the papers. You like the glory. It makes you feel like you're really worth something."
"I came here, but my brother, Frank, drove straight to the Bayport police station."
"I doubt that, Joe." Kevin jumped down off the barrel. "I'd guess Frank is off hunting for my brother."
"Why did you ever get involved in all this?"
"Involved in what?"
"You must know what it is Curt does for a living. Why did you let him use the Circle as a front for something like that?" "What is it you think he is?" "Curt Branders is an international killer for hire," answered Joe. "He's wanted by the authorities of at least a dozen countries for — " "That's not true!" Angry, Kevin walked over and kicked Joe hard in the ribs. "Curt isn't the kind of nine-to-five jerk they admire so much around here. He's a thief, I admit that. An international thief, but he's never killed anyone." "Is that what he's told you?" "That's what I know." Kevin laughed. "See, Joe, once upon a time, our father was a very successful businessman around here. Then about eight years ago he went bankrupt—and not one of his old friends lifted a hand to help him."
"I guess I don't see why you're laughing about that."
"You will in a minute," promised Kevin. "After my father went bankrupt — well, he got sick. He died about a year later." Kevin checked his watch again, looking toward the door. "After that Curt and I made a couple of promises. One was that we'd make a lot of money in our lives—and the other was that we'd never let the system beat us the way it had killed our father."