Blood Relations (7 page)

An hour later two very different young men emerged from the Hardy house. Showered and very conservatively dressed in suits and ties, Joe and Frank were, at least for the moment, two young investigators from the Internal Revenue Service.

They parked a block from Clark's house, well out of sight. Joe's van was not suitable transportation for any agent of the IRS, no matter how young he and his partner were.

Clark wasn't hard to find. His address was listed. The house was a nondescript clapboard bungalow in a respectable but slightly shabby neighborhood, the kind where lawns are nicely trimmed and the windows are clean but most of the houses could use a fresh coat of paint.

"Guess Mr. Rawley doesn't pay his secretary too well," said Joe.

"Maybe Clark likes to save his money," said Frank. "Or maybe this house is a cover and Clark figures, if you've got it, don't flaunt it."

Frank pressed the door buzzer. They could hear it sound inside. But there was no answer.

"No luck," said Frank, disappointed. "Nobody's home." But before he turned away, he tried the doorknob automatically, just to do something.

To his surprise, the door swung open.

He turned to Joe.

"Should we?" he asked.

"Why not?" said Joe, already on his way in.

"You never know what you can find," agreed Frank, following at his heels.

"You're not kidding," Joe gasped. "Look!"

But Frank already was looking—at the body lying dead on the floor.

He didn't have time to look at it long.

"Up with your hands," a voice growled.

And Frank and Joe wheeled around to find themselves looking down the barrel of a .45.

THE MAN WITH the gun instantly recognized them.

"Well, well, look who's here," he said with a nasty grin. "What a surprise."

They recognized him too. The gunman who had kidnapped them and herded them into the abandoned building.

"Yeah, we're getting to be old friends," Joe wisecracked. "And we haven't even been introduced."

"You can call me Max," the man said. "And I got your names already. Frank and Joe Hardy, right?"

"What makes you so sure this time?" asked Frank.

"Let's say we have a mutual friend," Max said. Then his eyes lit up as a thought hit him. "In fact, we got two mutual friends." The gunman indicated the body on the floor. "I didn't know you were pals with this Clark character. But that's fine with me. You can help me find what I was looking for when you barged in."

"What's that?" Frank asked, sizing up the situation and trying to spot a way out of their jam. But Max was alert as well, the gun steady in his hand. The guy was a pro.

"The company books," Max said. "There's a copy of Rawley's company's records here somewhere. Clark wouldn't tell me where they were and you see what happened to him. I advise you to tell me while you still got breath to do it with."

"We don't know anything about that, honest," Frank protested.

"Then what are you doing here — selling Girl Scout cookies?" Max asked. "Talk, or I'll lay you down next to this piece of meat."

"Look, you're making a mistake," said Joe, trying to sound convincing.

"You're making the mistake," Max said. "The last one you'll ever make."

"Joe's telling the truth," said Frank, trying one last time to persuade the gunman. "We don't know anything about these records, but we'll help you search for them. That's right up our alley. We're experienced investigators."

"What kind of jerk do you think I am?" Max said scornfully. "You'd jump me the first time I took my eyes off you. Well, I'm not giving you the chance. I'll find the stuff alone, without either of you getting in my way."

He pointed the gun so it was aimed directly between Joe's eyes.

"Bye-bye, Joey," he said. "Your brother Frank will be along in a minute."

With an effort, Joe kept his eyes open. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. No way it could end like this, so fast.

"Bye-bye," Max said, and Joe tensed, cold sweat on his skin.

Sound exploded. But it wasn't the bang of a gun. It was glass shattering.

A rock had come through the hall window and knocked Max's gun aside.

"Drop it," a voice commanded.

Max didn't obey. But he didn't shoot Joe either. He had a better use for his time. He wheeled around and ran for the back door.

Frank and Joe took off after him at breakneck speed. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, Joe caught his foot in a scatter rug and down he went. Frank tripped over him and sprawled spread-eagle on top of Joe.

"He got away!" Frank said, scrambling to his feet.

All they could do now was wonder who had saved them. They rushed back into the front hall.

A moment later Greg and Mike charged in through the front door.

"Whew, that was close," Greg said. "We watched through the window for as long as possible. We were hoping you'd disarm him so we wouldn't have to risk your lives by trying something."

"But when he was about to shoot, we had to gamble on him panicking," said Mike.

"It was a good gamble," said Frank. "He's not crazy, he's a pro. And a pro's first rule is to survive."

Joe shook his head, astounded by his brother. It was just like Frank to start in analyzing events rather than asking the obvious first question. Joe did it. "How did you guys get away from the kidnappers?"

"We had a little luck," Greg said. "Greg's being modest," Mike said. "Luck didn't have anything to do with it. Greg waited till there was just one guard, then he faked the guy out by pretending to have a stomachache. When the guard came to check, Greg got the drop on him, and we got out of the apartment they were holding us in. Callie said it sounded like Greg had been taking superhero pills."

Greg smiled modestly while his brother recounted their adventure.

Smiling was the last thing Frank felt like doing. He had a hard time keeping the sharpness out of his voice when he asked, "Callie? How did Callie find out?"

"As soon as we were free, we contacted Dunn," Greg explained. "He told us Mom was hiding out at Callie's, and we headed right over there. When we arrived, they told us what had happened."

"Then Mom told us you were going to pay a call on this William Clark guy," Mike said, continuing the story. "When we were being held prisoner, we heard them mention him a couple of times. We tried to call you, but you'd already left, so we rushed over here to see if you needed help. Guess it was a good thing we did." "Sure was," Joe said.

"Look," Frank said impatiently, "we have more important things to worry about. Starting with the late Mr. Clark. Now we do have to call the police, but before we do, let's see if we can find those financial records Max talked about." "Shouldn't we let the cops do that?" suggested Joe.

"I'd rather pursue this on our own a little further," Frank said. "If Mr. Rawley is a spy, and discovers the police are after him, he'll head for the border. I don't want to risk that. I think it's better that we get all the goods on him first, so that when the police come, it'll be with handcuffs."

"I'm glad you have a good reason," said Joe, teasing. "I'd hate to think you were just trying to outdo old Greg here."

"This is a case, not a competition!" Frank said indignantly. "Why would I want to do that?"

"No reason," Joe grinned. "No reason at all."

"Come on, guys," Greg said. "Let's get going and see who can find the records first."

"That's the wrong way to look at it," Frank said. "We have to work together. And be sure not to leave fingerprints everywhere. The police are going to be all over this place."

But despite what he said, he felt himself moving into action like a sprinter off the starting line. The others were moving too, fanning out through the house.

Less than ten minutes later, Frank's voice rang out through the bungalow. "I found it!"

His voice came from the kitchen. Joe, Greg, and Mike joined him there. He was standing with a small microfilm canister in his hand. The canister was covered with flour, so were his hands. An open tin of flour was on the counter in front of him.

"It wasn't hard to find," Frank said. "This William Clark was a real tidy guy. You know that by the way he kept this house. The whole place is immaculate, as though he vacuumed it every day. But I spotted a trace of flour on the kitchen counter. He must have been in a hurry when he stuck the microfilm in the flour tin, and didn't have a chance to clean up afterward, or maybe he simply had too much on his mind."

"Outstanding," said Greg. "I couldn't have done better myself."

Frank found himself gritting his teeth. But he kept his cool. "No problem. When somebody's real scared, he tends to act out of character. I had a hunch that Clark was scared, and I kept my eyes open."

"Still, great work," Mike said. "Let's get out of here."

"Mike, you clean up the flour and I'll call the police," said Greg. "I'll make it an anonymous phone call. I'll tell them there's a corpse here, describe the gunman, and hang up. That way they'll be able to pursue their investigation while we're free to keep on with ours. Sound okay to you?"

"Good thinking," Frank admitted, putting the microfilm in his pocket. Joe wet a sponge and started removing all traces of the flour.

A minute later the clean-up was finished, but Greg returned shaking his head. "Wouldn't you know it," he said. "The line was busy. I'll give it five minutes and try again."

But that very minute, the phone rang.

"I'm going to answer it," Frank said. "I might be able to find out something about Clark; I'll tell whoever's calling that Clark is out and that he told me to take any messages that might come for him."

"Outstanding," said Greg, nodding. For some reason Greg was getting on Frank's nerves more and more.

But he tried to forget all about him when he answered the phone.

It was Linda Rawley, and it wasn't Clark she wanted.

"Thank goodness, Frank," she said. "I'm so worried. Callie went out to shop for food. She said she'd be right back, but that was almost an hour ago. Now I'm afraid something has happened."

"Sit tight," Frank answered, his voice tense. "We'll be over as soon as we take care of a couple of things here."

"Hurry," Linda Rawley pleaded.

"We will," Frank replied, and hung up. He kept his hand on the receiver. He was ready to pick up the phone and try the police again, hoping the line was clear by now.

Then the phone rang again.

He picked it up, but he didn't even have a chance to say hello before a gravelly voice said, "We've got Callie Shaw. You tell the cops about Clark or anything else, and they're going to have to work double time. Because your sweet little Callie'll be dead too!"

"WHAT I CAN'T figure out is how they knew that Callie was working with us," Joe said. "Even Rawley didn't know, so we can't blame this on him." Joe and the others were having a conference in Callie's living room, trying to plan their next move. Frank was there, along with Greg and Mike and Linda Rawley. John Dunn had just arrived. He'd left New York as soon as they told him about Callie's kidnapping.

"Maybe they let Greg and Mike escape on purpose in order to tail them to their mother," Dunn speculated. "It would have been too dangerous, too risky to grab Linda here. The neighbors might have seen something suspicious. So they waited and grabbed Callie when she went to the store."

"I hate to admit it, but you might be right," said Greg ruefully. "We were so eager to make sure Mom was okay that we didn't look to see if we were being tailed."

"But how could they have tied Callie to Frank and me?" Joe wanted to know. "I mean, they called us at Clark's house with the news of the kidnapping."

"Our stepfather would have known that Callie and Frank were dating," Mike suggested. "Just like he would have known it was you two who were doing the snooping at Clark's."

"Still think the wonderful Walter Rawley is such a good guy, Joe?" Greg asked.

"Okay, okay," Joe said with a shrug of defeat. "Maybe I am wrong about him. Everybody's entitled to one mistake."

"Don't feel bad." Linda Rawley tried to comfort him. "I made an even bigger one. I married him, and he completely fooled me."

It was Frank who brought the group back to the problem at hand. "We're still stuck. Even with this new evidence, we can't go to the police. It would put Callie in too much danger."

"That's right," said Joe. "We have to find these guys by ourselves."

"What evidence do we have?" asked Dunn. He pointed at the microfilm canister on the coffee table in front of them. "Anybody check it out yet?"

"I gave it a quick once-over," said Frank. "It's a record of a lot of checks in large amounts over the years. They're from some company called Intertool, with an address in Lichtenstein and a checking account in an off-shore bank in the Bahamas."

"And who are they written to?" asked Greg. "Or can I guess?"

"I'm sure you can," acknowledged Frank.

"My dear stepfather, right?" Greg said, his mouth curling into a bitter sneer.

"It's still so hard for me to believe," Linda Rawley said.

"We have to face the facts," said Frank.

"Anything else on that microfilm?" asked Joe.

"A number—and the name and address of a bank in Zurich," said Frank.

"A numbered Swiss account," said Dunn, nodding. "It figures. It's the logical place for Rawley to squirrel away his dough."

"On our ski vacation in Switzerland last year, Walter did go off for a day to Zurich," Linda Rawley said, remembering. "He said it was business."

"Yeah. Funny business," commented Greg. "We've got the noose around stepdaddy's neck now."

"The question is, how do we pull it tight— without breaking an innocent neck," Frank said.

They sat silently thinking. But before any of them could come up with an answer, the phone started ringing.

"I'll get it," said Frank. "It could be Callie's parents. They're used to me waiting around the house for Callie, so they won't be suspicious."

"Callie was right. You do cover all the angles," said Linda Rawley as Frank reached for the phone.