High-Speed Showdown (9 page)

Herrick's Cove was just fifteen minutes from the Hardy house. They pulled into Au Vieux Port's parking lot on the stroke of eight. Dave was just walking toward the entrance. He waited for them.

“Some place, huh?” he said. “I could hardly believe it when Gerald invited me. That must be one of the perks of crewing for Barry.”

The restaurant was built on a wharf, over the water. From the front, it looked like a collection of weathered fishing shacks. As they neared the entrance, Joe noticed a terrace at the far side, with umbrella-topped tables that overlooked the bay.

Inside, there were fresh flowers on every table, amid sparkling china, crystal, and silver. The tuxedo-clad maître d' led them to a long table in a windowed alcove. Joe did his best to act casual, but he found himself wishing he and Frank had gone to Mr. Pizza for dinner instead.

Gerald Magnusson's “small dinner party” turned out to be about twenty people. Dennis and Miguel were there, and so were Barry, Carl Newcastle, and a lot of the other competitors. Dennis introduced the Hardys to a thin, nervous-looking guy named Pete Carnofsky. He turned out to be
the driver of
Blue Flame
, the boat that had almost crashed while being trucked down Shore Road two days earlier.

The talk was all about engines, deep-V hulls versus catamarans, and tales of other races and other racers. Joe listened with half an ear. He could tell that Frank, who was seated on the other side of the table, was doing the same.

The first course was huge platters of shellfish on beds of crushed ice. Joe recognized the crabs, crawfish, and oysters, but the other varieties were a mystery. He made a point of trying everything, including a tiny, rubbery creature that he had to tease out of its shell with what looked like a metal toothpick. Then he decided to go wash his hands.

As he was coming out of the washroom, he heard a muffled man's voice say, “That's right, in the Bayport Offshore Races on Saturday. What's the line on BB? No, I don't want to place a bet now. Yes, I'm sure—one hundred percent sure. But when I do, it'll be big.”

There was a click. Joe hurried forward. On the other side of a partition was a pay telephone. The cord of the receiver was still swaying back and forth, but there was no one near it. Joe peered into the dining room. Magnusson and Newcastle were standing near the table, talking. Barry was just taking his seat. Had any of them just made that phone call?

Joe thought fast. Someone was checking the
odds on the race and was planning to bet a large amount of money. He doubted that there was an illegal gambling ring in Bayport that could handle really big sums. That meant that the call had probably been long distance.

On a hunch, Joe returned to the phone, put in a quarter, and dialed “0.” When the operator answered, he said, “I'd like time and charges on the call I just made, please.”

“Just a moment, sir. I'll connect you to your long distance service,” the operator replied.

When the next operator came on, he repeated his request. After a pause, the operator said, “Your call to area code 702 lasted three minutes, and your calling card was billed one dollar and twelve cents.”

Crossing his fingers, Joe asked, “What was that number again, operator?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the operator said. “I can't release that information. Have a nice day.”

Joe didn't have a chance to tell Frank about the mysterious phone call until after dinner, when they were driving home.

“I checked the phone book,” he concluded. “That's the area code for Nevada. If you ask me, somebody is planning to make a big bet on Saturday's race. I just wish I'd seen who it was.”

“It may not be that important,” Frank said. “We already know that people bet on themselves in these races.”

“Yeah, but what if somebody bets on the
other
guy, then takes a dive?” Joe pointed out.

“I see what you're saying,” Frank responded. “Hmm . . . you remember Dad's friend Claude? The one who's a private investigator in Las Vegas? Why don't we give him a call when we get home and ask if he'll nose around a little?”

“Good idea,” Joe said. “And why not do a database search on all the main competitors, too? We might turn up some incident in their past that'll help us figure out what's going on here.”

An hour later Frank pushed his chair back from the computer table and said, “Okay, what do we have?”

Joe looked up from using a highlighter on several pages of printout. “A lot of gossip,” he said. “Dennis's computer company is said to be a takeover target. Magnusson's real estate empire is supposedly having serious cash-flow problems. Newcastle's trucking firm has been rumored to be linked to organized crime. Susan Shire's TV show is in danger of being canceled next season. Oh, and Barry Batten is superstitious. Now,
that's
news!”

Frank laughed. “Come on, let's turn in,” he suggested. “Tomorrow is another day.”

 • • •

The phone rang the next morning at eight, just as Frank and Joe were finishing breakfast. Frank answered. It was Barry.

“Gerald made me promise to talk to you guys as soon as possible,” he said. “I've got a theory about the jinx.”

“We'll be there in twenty minutes,” Frank replied. “Half an hour, outside.”

Barry said, “Okay, listen, I'm about to go for a swim. Meet me at the pool.”

The Waterside Inn swimming pool was off to one side of the main building, enclosed by a fence and a thick hedge. Barry was just coming out when Frank and Joe arrived. He was wearing a thick terrycloth robe and rubbing his head with a towel.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking,” he said, when he saw the Hardys. “You can believe me or not, I don't much care. But there really is a jinx. The only thing I haven't figured out yet is whether it's aimed at the meet or at me.”

“It wasn't your boat that caught fire yesterday,” Frank pointed out. “And you did win the time trials.”

“Yeah,” Barry replied. “But all that may just be a way to put me off my guard.”

Frank looked over at Joe and rolled his eyes. Champion racer or not, this guy seemed to be playing with less than a full deck.

“Hey, what—!” Barry said. He was gazing up at the inn. “My window's open. I know I left it shut.”

“Maybe you're looking at the wrong window,” Joe suggested. “It's easy to make that mistake.”

Barry said, “I'm in the corner room, right over the veranda roof. And the window's open!”

He broke into a run. Frank and Joe followed him into the inn and up the stairs. His door was at the end of the corridor. Barry fumbled with his key, pushed the door open, and rushed into the room. After turning a full 360 degrees, his eyes came to rest on the dresser.

“It's gone!” he shouted. “My lucky charm—it's gone. Somebody stole it. I
knew
this meet was jinxed!”

11 Barry Breaks Down

“Let's take it easy,” Frank said, scanning the room. “Maybe you forgot where you put the medallion.”

“Or maybe it fell behind the furniture,” Joe suggested.

Barry's square jaw jutted out as he gave Joe a dirty look. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?” he demanded. “I know perfectly well where I left it—right here on top of the dresser. And I know I left the window closed. Some rat sneaked in here and stole my lucky medallion, you hear? And I know who it was, too. That eco-nut who threatened me yesterday, her or her little buddy.”

Wordlessly, Joe went over to the dresser and peered behind it, then got down on his hands and
knees to scan the floor under it and under the bed. Barry watched, scowling. When Joe stood up empty-handed, he said, “What did I tell you, wise guy?”

Frank went to the door and glanced into the corridor. Several curious faces looked back at him from other doorways. Obviously, Barry's voice had carried. Frank quietly closed the door and turned back to Barry.

“How long were you away from the room?” he asked.

Barry looked confused. “Uh . . . half an hour? Maybe a little more? I went down to the pool right after I called you guys.”

“That was at eight,” Frank said, mostly to himself. “And we met you at the pool just after eight-thirty. So the room was empty for about half an hour. If someone were watching for you to leave, he or she would have had plenty of time to come in, find the medallion, and split.”

“Frank?” Joe called. He was standing next to the open window.

Frank went over to join him. The windowsill and frame were white and recently painted. From the sill, there was a three-foot drop to the mossy shingles of the veranda roof. Frank looked over the sill and the roof, then stooped down to look at them with the light at a different angle. As he straightened up, he met Joe's eyes.

“Nada
, right?” Joe murmured. “No footprints,
no hand marks, no scratches or smudges. If our burglar came in this way, he managed to do it without touching the roof or the windowsill.”

“Maybe it was Peter Pan and he flew in,” Frank suggested to Joe, low enough so that Barry couldn't hear. He leaned his head out and craned his neck to look upward. “No sign of anyone forcing the latch, either.”

“What are you guys saying?” Barry demanded.

Frank said, “We were just wondering how someone got in through the window without leaving any traces.”

“It must have been an experienced burglar,” Barry muttered.

“Are you positive that the window and door were locked?” Joe asked.

“What kind of idiot do you think I am?” Barry demanded for a second time. Frank was tempted to tell him, but managed to hold his tongue.

Barry continued, “Of course they were locked. Some detectives you turned out to be!”

Frank froze. Then he looked over at Joe, who seemed as taken aback as he was. “Detectives?” Frank said in a mild voice. “Where'd you get that from, Barry?”

Barry stared at him. “From Gerald, of course,” he replied. “Why do you think I asked you to come talk to me?”

“When did he tell you?” Joe demanded.

“Why—last night, after dinner,” Barry said. “I
was telling him how worried I am about all this stuff that's been happening. That's when he told me about you guys. He said you had the situation under control. Under control . . . ha!”

“Who else was around when he told you this?” Frank asked.

Barry shrugged. “I didn't notice. Anyway, who cares? That's not going to get my medallion back, is it?”

Frank returned to the door and studied it. It had a spring latch that locked automatically when the door shut, and a dead bolt as well. He pulled the door open and looked closely at the lock. There was no sign of recent scratching. He shut the door and turned to face Barry. “I don't think there's much more we can do here at this point,” Frank said.

“I didn't notice you doing much of anything,” Barry said, almost smugly. “I'm not surprised.”

Frank saw Joe open his mouth to make an angry reply. He touched Joe on the arm, as a signal for him to hold it in. Joe scowled, but he didn't say anything.

“We'll let you know if we have any more questions,” Frank said coolly.

Barry gave a snort of derision. “I don't need any more questions,” he declared. “Just some answers—and you guys seem fresh out of those.”

Frank rolled his eyes, then gestured with his head for Joe to follow him out of the room. As they
walked toward the stairs, Joe said, “What a dork! I wouldn't be surprised if he hid the medallion himself.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Frank.

“No idea,” Joe replied. “To get publicity? Or just because he's such a dork?”

“Poor Dave,” Frank said. “He actually got a chance to race, and now this. . . . ”

They reached the foot of the stairs just as Gerald Magnusson came rushing up. The dozen or more competitors who were standing around the lobby, talking among themselves, followed him over. Frank spotted Dennis, Susan, and Carl among them.

“What's this I hear?” Gerald demanded. “Was Barry's lucky piece really stolen?”

Frank said carefully, “It does seem to be missing. He thinks someone sneaked in the window of his room while he was at the pool.”

“Terrible!” Gerald exclaimed. “We all know how much that charm means to Barry. He must be devastated.”

Dennis stepped forward. Thoughtfully stroking his beard, he said, “Gerald, this has to stop. First, all these so-called accidents, and now this. What's the committee going to do about it?”

“Dennis, we're all just as concerned as you are,” Gerald said smoothly. “If some misguided person or group is trying to disrupt our meet, we intend to make sure they don't succeed.”

He turned and motioned toward Frank and Joe. “Some of you have already met Frank and Joe Hardy,” he continued. “What you don't know is that their father is the famous investigator Fenton Hardy.”

Frank managed to keep the shock he felt from showing on his face. Had Magnusson forgotten that he and Joe were supposed to be working undercover? And if Magnusson decided that keeping them anonymous had lost its usefulness, couldn't he at least have warned them before making a public announcement?

Magnusson continued, “Joe and Frank themselves have a fast growing reputation as detectives. At my request, they've agreed to look into the situation here. I'm one hundred percent sure they have the situation under control. Boys, is there anything you'd like to say at this point?”

Frank thought quickly. Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, we can't really say anything about the leads we've developed so far. But if any of you have noticed anything unusual, I hope you'll let us know.” Frank gave the group the number of his home and car phone, and added, “Any calls will be kept confidential. Joe?”