Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Disaster for Hire (5 page)
Frank said, "Is there likely to be anyone there now?"
Glancing at her wristwatch, Jenny answered, "Not this late, no."
Frank eased out of the booth. "So, let's go."
"Our pizza," said Joe.
"Leave some money for it. You were the one anxious to leave."
"I'll have them put it in a box to go."
"Just hurry up." Frank started for the door.
Joe stood. "You keep forgetting," he called after his brother, "it's important to have three square meals a day."
***
Joe whispered, "How tall was he?" Jenny's nose wrinkled. "Who?" "Your boyfriend." "I don't know—six foot six?"
"Seems to me you'd remember how tall a boyfriend was."
"He hunched a lot when he walked, so he really didn't look that tall."
"Hair?"
"Of course."
Joe gave her a look. "What color was it?"
"Quiet, you two," Frank whispered.
The three of them crouched behind a high hedge near the biotech building. The structure was massive and sprawling. None of the concrete walls was broken by a single window.
"There," said Jenny in a low voice, as a campus patrol car rolled by in front of the lab building. "They pass every fifteen minutes."
"No guards inside?" asked Frank.
She shook her head.
"Okay, let's try to get in there."
Jenny touched Frank's arm before he could rise. "Let me go first," she requested. "The side door's a bit tricky to work. If I get caught, I can probably talk my way out of it."
"Is there an alarm?"
"Something like that. Wait here and I'll signal you." Jenny slipped through the hedge, then sprinted toward the looming gray building.
Watching her run, Joe wondered, "Do you think she's leveling with us?"
"About what?"
"Things in general. I can't pin it down ..."
Joe eyed his brother. "You've got that sly, smug look on your face again," he accused. "Do you know something I don't know?"
"It's not so much knowing — " Frank began, then cut off. "She's waving to us. Let's move."
They pushed through the high hedge and ran for the open doorway.
Jenny stood just across the threshold, propping the heavy metal door open for them with one hand. "No trouble."
The boys crossed into a long shadowy corridor, which was dimly lit by small bulbs mounted in the pale green walls every hundred feet.
The thick door hissed shut behind them. "Next stop, Professor Bookman's office." Jenny started along a long, gloomy hallway. "It's on this level."
"How many levels altogether?" asked Frank, following her.
"Five. Three above, two below ground." They went around a bend, along another shadowy stretch of corridor, then around yet another bend.
"What a real cheerful place," observed Joe, who was bringing up the rear.
Halting, Jenny reached out and opened a heavy wooden door. "Professor Bookman's office." She turned on the lights. "We can start — Oh!"
The office was large and painted green, like the halls. Along one wall stood a row of filing cabinets. All the drawers hung open and empty.
Frank went to look into them. "Not a folder or a memo left." He shook his head.
"Could the university have cleaned them out?" suggested Joe. "Or the police have taken them?"
"No," said Jenny. "They didn't."
Frank asked her, "You're sure?"
"His daughter would've mentioned it to me." Jenny knelt, picking up a framed photo from the floor. She glanced at it, then placed it facedown on the desk. "I wouldn't have sneaked us in if I'd known about this."
Joe circled the large metal desk. "They got to this, too," he announced, pulling out drawers. "Nothing but paper clips and rubber bands."
Jenny walked around the office. "Somebody's definitely trying to suppress what Professor Bookman knew."
Frank leaned against the filing cabinet. "But it doesn't prove our father's innocent," he said. "The police will just say he came back here after the murder and stole the stuff too."
"He couldn't have," said Jenny. "The files were here yesterday."
"How do you know that?"
"I was here, with the professor's daughter."
"Neither of you took anything?" Joe asked.
"She took a few personal things, that's all."
Frank said, "We might find something of interest in Dr. Winter's office."
"It's a possibility." Jenny opened the door.
"His office is upstairs. They stack professors by rank, highest on top and so on." She turned off the light in the office.
"Funny thing about Bookman's office being cleaned out like that," said Frank. "How'd they get in here to do it?"
"We got in," Jenny reminded him.
"So our file collector either has to work here or know someone who does," said Frank. "That narrows down the field of suspects."
Halfway up to the next level, Joe said, "I left something back in the office. Go on ahead. I'll catch up."
"Dr. Winter's office is B-Six," said Jenny. "Meet you there."
"Right." Joe hurried back down the stairs.
He hadn't left anything behind — he was just anxious to get a look at the picture Jenny had picked up and put facedown on the desk.
About ten feet from the late professor's office, he slowed. The door was half-open, and a faint glow spilled into the corridor.
Holding his breath, Joe moved cautiously toward the opening and heard someone inside Bookman's office. He was searching the desk with a flashlight, Joe saw when he stole up closer.
Joe decided to jump the guy, nail him, and then call Frank.
Joe threw open the door, ready to attack. But the intruder was also ready and pivoted, flinging the flashlight.
Joe ducked, but the heavy metal caught him on the side of the head. He staggered back, tripped, and sat down hard.
The black-clad figure barreled out of the office and kicked out at Joe before taking off down the long corridor.
Joe struggled to his feet and pursued the intruder. The guy had long hair and was lanky. He matched Frank's description of one of the thugs from the island. But Frank hadn't mentioned that the guy was a sprinter—and fast.
The side door was now wide open, and the man in black ducked out into the foggy night.
Without hesitating, Joe bounded after him right into a spotlight, which froze him in its harsh glare.
"That's far enough, son," barked a gravelly amplified voice. "Freeze!"
BEHIND THE GLARING SPOTLIGHT was a campus patrol car that had been parked upon the lawn.
Shielding his eyes, Joe called out, "You ought to be chasing the other guy."
"I want those hands behind your head, son." A slim, balding man in khaki pants and cap came trotting up to him. He carried a nightstick.
"I was right, Mike, absolutely right," a plump, curly-haired man of about forty called to the officer. He wore an overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape and was standing beside the patrol car. "When I passed here on my evening stroll, I was certain I spotted someone breaking in."
A second campus cop, older and fatter, remained beside the man in the overcoat. "That was something, seeing him on a foggy night like this, Dr. Winter."
Joe allowed the slim policeman to frisk him. "Sure, there was a burglar," he told the patrolman. "I was chasing him when you showed up."
"No use wasting your story on me, son. Save it for the real police," he advised, straightening up. "They'll be here any minute to take you in."
"But it's the other guy you want."
"Nobody came out of that building but you."
"Okay, he may have slipped out just before you drove up. Or maybe you're covering for him."
"I wouldn't say something like that." The night stick snapped into the patrolman's palm. "You see, I have something of a temper."
"Joe? What's going on?" Frank and Jenny stepped out of the lab building.
"I found a guy inside, nosing around," Joe told his brother. "I tried to tag him. But these gentlemen have the crazy idea that I'm a burglar."
"Hold it right there," the patrolman warned Frank and the girl. "Just nice and easy, lock your hands on your heads and walk over to me."
"Honestly, Harry," said Jenny. "There's no need for all this storm trooper stuff. I can explain exactly what we're doing here."
"Miss Bookman? Sorry, I didn't recognize you," the policeman apologized.
"Bookman?" Frank looked over at Joe. "Looks like we've been had."
"That explains why she hid the photograph in the office — it was of her and her father," said Joe. "I should have known."
"Look, it was the only way I could talk to you," Jenny said. "I had to find out what you knew about my father's murder. I'm sorry I lied, but I hope you understand why I had to do it."
"A little late for sorry." Joe turned away.
The sergeant's name was Hershfield. He was thickset and graying. As he sat behind his battered desk, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, which rested on the only clean spot on his blotter. "Maybe you lads are wondering why you're talking to homicide," he said to Frank and Joe.
"No, it makes sense from your point of view," answered Frank, who sat in a straightback chair facing the sergeant. He and Joe had gone downtown. Jenny had gone home. "You and Detective Baylor are investigating the Bookman murder."
Detective Baylor was black, younger, taller and slimmer than his partner. "You sound like it doesn't make sense from your point of view."
Frank glanced over at him. "You believe our father did the killing. We don't."
"He did it." Hershfield plucked a dead cigar out of a green glass ashtray and stuck it in his mouth, leaving it unlit.
"He was only here because President Fawcette hired him," Joe said.
"We've talked to Dr. Fawcette," said Baylor.
"He's of the opinion that both you lads are looney," added Hershfield.
Frank said, "We'd have to be crazy, Sergeant, to make up the story we've been telling you."
"Meaning your story is so goofy it must be true?" Hershfield bit at the dead cigar, frowned, then put it back in the ashtray.
"Look," said Joe, "We know our dad. You say he killed somebody. Now that's goofy."
"I've known a lot of private eyes over the years," said the sergeant. "Used to be they were little toads who peeked through keyholes. Now they're all button-down types who specialize in industrial spying. It doesn't surprise me that a private detective could be hired as a killer—in spite of a phony reputation."
"Not our father," said Frank, catching Joe and straight-arming him before he could jump up from his chair.
Baylor said, "I know how you feel. But we have witnesses who swear they saw Fenton Hardy prop Professor Bookman in the seat of his car and then shove that car over a hill."
Joe Hardy's jaws clenched. "We'd like to talk to those witnesses."
"So you can intimidate them?" Hershfield picked up the dead cigar again.
Frank scraped his chair forward loudly. "So, our father is a slick hired killer—who just happens to kill someone in front of a bunch of witnesses."
"They all make mistakes," said the sergeant. "Even the smart ones."
Joe asked, "What was his motive?"
"Money. He was hired for the hit."
Frank started laughing. "Come on, sergeant. A hit man? Our father? No way."
"That's your opinion, kid. Not mine."
Baylor said, "I hear you boys play detective sometimes. What's your opinion about what happened to Bookman?"
Joe began, "It's all tied in with the B — "
"Joe," Frank cut in, "all we have so far are theories. Let's not waste the officers' time."
"No, we'd like to hear what you have to say," said Hershfield. "See, my wife makes me watch a lot of TV shows about amateur detectives. I'm starting to think you amateurs can be a big help to us pros."
"Sure you do," said Frank.
Joe said, "You want a suggestion? Why not find who else was in the biotech building tonight?"
"Nobody saw this alleged prowler, except you," the policeman reminded him.
"But I saw him earlier," countered Frank, "out on Berrill Island."
The sergeant pointed at him with the dead cigar. "Again, no witness to back up your story."
"I'd also like to know why Dr. Winter was out at such a convenient time tonight. Just perfect to spot us."
"We checked that," said Baylor. "He's famous for his nighttime strolls. You could set your watch by him."
"And the intruder didn't know that—or did he?" said Frank. "The biotech building is built like a fortress. So how'd the intruder get in?"
"We don't believe there was an intruder. But what are you suggesting? That Winter came around and opened the door for the other man?"
Frank shrugged. "That's one of several possibilities."
"None of which interests me." Hershfield ground out the unlit cigar in his ashtray.
"That's because you're convinced our father is guilty," said Joe, his patience almost at an end. "While you're hunting him, you can just forget about finding the real killer."
"Can we cut these kids loose?" Hershfield abruptly asked his partner.
"Sure. Miss Bookman vouched for them before we sent her home," answered the black detective. "If we stretch it a little, she has a right to be in the biotech building. They were the young lady's guests, so it isn't breaking and entering."
"Okay, you boys can go home now. And I suggest you go all the way home, back to Bayport," advised the sergeant. "Leave this case to us."
"Afraid not, Sergeant." Frank stood up. "We're probably the only ones who have a chance to solve this case. You're looking for the wrong man."
"We'll find the right one," added Joe. "Then we'll see what you have to say."
"What I have to say is this." Hershfield rose to his feet. "I don't like amateurs, especially juvenile amateurs, poking around in police business. This time around you boys were lucky. Next time you may not have some professor's daughter along to back you up."
"Don't worry," promised Frank. "We'll keep out of your way, Sergeant."
"See that you do." The sergeant scowled at both of them. "And keep in mind that Fenton Hardy, no matter what you happen to think, is wanted by the Seattle police. If you know where he is. Do you, by the way?"