The Crowning Terror (10 page)

"Let's move," Frank said, sliding his arm through the crown until it dangled like a bracelet.

Gazing at the trees in back of the building, he took a few steps back on the roof, built up to a full sprint, and leaped. His hands snatched out at a tree limb. Bark scraped into his hands, but his grip held. He was safe.

Gracefully, without a running start, Joe leapt. To Frank's horror, he missed the tree and plunged. But with a carefree laugh, Joe caught a lower branch and hung there. "You coming or what?" he asked Frank.

They climbed down to the ground, watching the red lights flash in front of the museum. "We'd better leave," Frank whispered. They ran through the park, staying off the street.

At Fulton Street they stopped running. Now that the danger was over, they were relieved, but their strength had left them.

"Let's take a cab the rest of the way," Joe said. "We deserve a rest."

"Sounds good to me," said Frank. He stood on the curb, waving his hand at the oncoming traffic. Two empty cabs passed them by. "I don't think this works like it does in New York, Joe. Maybe you have to call for cabs in this town."

"Let me try it." Joe pushed his brother aside and stuck out his hand. Another cab zipped by. "You know, we have to go to a new hotel again. Starkey knows where we're staying."

"I know," said Frank. He put out his hand again in a last-ditch effort to hail a cab.

To their surprise, a cab blinked off its top light and pulled over to the curb. They climbed in and gave the driver a downtown address.

"I think I've figured this out," Frank said. "Starkey's trying to frame Uncle Hugh for some reason. So he created a couple of fake Russians who forced Uncle Hugh to work with them. And then Starkey was planning to catch Uncle Hugh in the act tonight."

"So he caught us instead," said Joe. "Swell." He took the crown from Frank and examined it.

"But I think the crown was just bait," Frank said. "In and of itself, the crown is worthless."

"Wrong," said a soft voice from the front seat. A woman sat up on the passenger side, a strawberry blonde with bright blue eyes. In her hand was a gun, and it was pointed straight at them. For the first time Joe looked at the driver. It was Kwan.

"Hi, Joe," Charity said. "Thanks for stealing the crown for me. It really is worth a great deal of money." She smiled, and Joe smiled back faintly. "You can hand it over now."

She held out her hand, and, reluctantly, Joe put the crown in her palm. "At last," she said. She squeezed her hand around it and twisted it in her fingers. Then her face reddened with anger.

"Fake," she cried, rage choking her voice. "It's a fake!"

"Where is it?" asked Charity.

"Where's what?" Joe replied. "That's the crown we took. What you see is what you get."

Furious, she threw the crown in his face. "Feel it," she said. "Gold is cool to the touch. That isn't even metal. Now where's the real one?"

"Who are you?" Frank asked.

"Frank, this is Charity," said Joe. "Charity, Frank. She's the one I was telling you about."

"Ah. The one with the nice house and the photographs," Frank said. "I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you."

"We're wasting time," said Charity. "You have one more chance to keep this pleasant."

Frank sighed. "Joe's telling the truth. That one's all we've got." He could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn't believe him.

With a shrug, Charity waved the pistol in their faces. "Please sit still. I'd rather not shoot you." To Kwan, she said, "We'll get answers out of them at the house."

Kwan grinned and stepped on the gas, heading for Chinatown.

"Just so we're all clear on why we're here, let me give you a demonstration," Charity said.

Frank and Joe sat strapped back to back in chairs on the second floor of Charity's home. The room was lit by a single lamp, which cast huge shadows on the bare walls. Unlike the other floors, it was stripped of antiques, except for an old oil lamp suspended from the ceiling. Its seven metal cups had once held fuel oil, but now they were empty, waiting to be filled.

From a cabinet, Charity brought a glass vial that held a clear liquid. In her other hand, she held a small metal bowl on a ceramic dish. Setting the bowl and dish on the floor where the Hardys could see them, she poured several drops from the vial into the bowl. It sizzled and steamed where it struck metal. An acrid taste filled the Hardys' mouths as they inhaled the fumes.

"This is a special kind of acid used in antiquing furniture," Charity explained. "They dab it on wood to burn in scars and make the wood look old. As you can see, the acid ate through the metal bowl. But, of course, it has no effect on ceramics.

"Now," she said. "Let's begin again."

"Can I ask you a question first?" Frank asked.

Charity cocked her head and eyed him with suspicion. "I'd hardly be a proper hostess if I said no. What can I do for you?"

"Where do you fit in all this? Why do you want the crown?"

She smiled a little. "Discretion forbids me from telling any names, Frank, but there's an art collector in Italy who'll pay me six figures for that piece." She twirled the fake on her finger. "Not this piece of junk. The real one. Now, suppose you tell me something — "

"We've told you," Joe said. "We don't know."

"Kwan!" she called. The man came through the door, carrying a stepladder. He set it up next to Frank and Joe's chairs, took the vial from Charity, and climbed to the top of the ladder. Joe craned his neck to watch Kwan pour the acid into the lamp cups, but Frank kept his eyes on Charity.

She strolled to the window, opened it, and breathed in the salt air rolling in off the ocean. In the distance a church bell chimed midnight. "At quarter past," she said almost absentmindedly, "the acid will eat its way through the lamp and begin to drip. If it hits your face, you'll end up in bad shape. If it hits the top of your head, your condition will be much worse.

"I'd be happy to move you out of the way," Charity said sweetly. "If you'd just cooperate."

"We're as cooperative as possible," Frank said. "There's nothing more we can tell you."

"Save your breath, Frank,'.' Joe said. "This dirty spy won't believe a thing we say."

"Spy!" Charity cried in outrage. "I've got scruples, brother. I'm a thief and nothing less. Spy! What a thing to say."

"I suppose Kwan isn't Red Chinese, then," Joe said accusingly.

At that, both Charity and Kwan roared with laughter. When the laughter died down, Kwan said, "I was born in Houston, and my family has lived in this country for one hundred and fifty years. Why on earth does he think we're spies, Charity?"

"Perhaps I can answer that," said a voice from the doorway.

Charity and Kwan spun to face a rugged, grinning man with white curly hair. A pistol glinted in his hand.

"Uncle Hugh!" Joe cried.

"Hello, Joe," he said. "What's the matter, Frank? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"The last time I saw you, you let two men drag me off to my death without lifting a finger to help," Frank replied.

Hugh Hunt swaggered into the room. His face was white, and Joe noticed his gun hand shaking slightly. He's sick, Joe thought. It's the poison getting to him.

"Not lift a finger?" their uncle said. "Who do you think supplied the motorbike with which your brother rescued you?"

"You were the man in the helmet!" said Joe.

"Forgive me, Frank," his uncle continued. "But it was very important that I let Starkey think I was playing by his rules. Believe me when I say you were never in any real danger. I'd have stepped in to save you if I'd had to."

"That's very comforting," Frank said, but he didn't mean it.

Hugh stepped casually into the room and leaned against the door frame. "I must say I was surprised to see you involved in this business at all. How did Starkey con you into it?"

"We wanted to help you," Joe said. "And Starkey wanted us to help him investigate you."

"That's very interesting," Hugh said, with a sly grin. "Especially since I've been investigating him."

"What?" said Frank and Joe.

For a moment their uncle shivered and swayed-Brushing sweat from his brow, he steadied himself. "I'll explain some other time. Right now I need the crown for a trade. Where is it?"

"They haven't got it," Charity said. "And they , ( claim they don't know where it is."

The news shook him. "But I watched them steal it."

Charity nodded. "Me, too. But all they came out with was this." She held up the crown. "A counterfeit. Not even gold."

"I know," said Hugh. "That's what I want." He stepped forward, stretching out his hand, but every step was a bit shakier.

"It's worthless," Joe said, bewildered. "You need the real one."

"That one's only worth thousands. This one's worth millions," his uncle explained. "To Starkey, anyway, and to our government." He neared Charity. "Hand it over."

"Sure," she said and reached out to drop the crown into his hand. At the last second she snatched it away. "Kwan!" she shouted, throwing it across the room.

Kwan caught the crown, and Hugh spun to aim at him. In that instant Charity kicked out, jabbing Hunt behind the knee with her heel. His legs buckled beneath him. He hit the floor with a loud thud, and the gun skidded from his hand.

Trying to gather his wits, Hugh crawled for his gun, but Kwan darted across the room and kicked the weapon out of his grasp. On his hands and knees, Hugh continued toward it, but Kwan barred his way to the weapon. The Chinese-American laughed as Hugh Hunt tried to pull himself up by grabbing Kwan's hand for support.

Suddenly Kwan's face twisted with pain. He sank to his knees as the boys' uncle rose up, his thumb and index finger pinching Kwan's hand. Thrilled, Joe realized his uncle had been faking his weakness to gain the advantage. Hugh shoved Kwan away and snatched the crown from him as he fell.

Charity scrambled for her gun, but Hugh reached his first. He spun and fired.

The floor light shattered, plunging the room into darkness. In a flash Hugh was out the door with the crown. "Kwan!" Charity shouted angrily. "Get up! After him! I'm not passing up a chance at millions."

The Hardys heard Kwan groan, followed by the noise of the big man getting to his feet. Then came pounding footsteps as he followed Charity out.

"What about us?" Joe called after them. There was no answer but the slamming of the downstairs door, followed by silence. "What about us?" he muttered in desperation, although no one but Frank could hear.

With a sizzle, acid dripped past him, burning a scar in his chair.

Joe strained to move his chair, but the old wooden frame was too heavy to budge. A drop of acid spattered and hissed on the floor. He looked up into the darkness. The metal of the lamp was starting to go. They had minutes, perhaps seconds, until the acid dissolved the lamp and came raining down on them. "I can't overturn the chair," he told Frank. "Maybe I can stand up."

"Don't waste your time," Frank said. "If you're tied like me, you don't have the leverage. Are your hands tied in back of the chair?"

"Yes."

"Good. Try to grab my hands," Frank ordered. They strained until their hands touched, and their fingers locked together. "I keep telling you, Joe. Leverage will get you out of situations where strength won't do any good. Singly, all we have is strength. Together, we have leverage. Push."

They leaned back until the backs of their chairs touched each other, and then, slowly, they forced the chair feet back, too. Pressed against each other, they stood. Acid spattered all around them now, spitting liquid fire on their clothes, but they ignored the pain.

"Right?" Joe asked.

"Right to you, left to me," Frank said. "One. Two. Three. Shift." At the same instant, they threw their weight to the sides of the chairs, pushing up with their feet.

The chairs toppled over, throwing them to the floor on their sides as acid poured down on the spot where they had sat seconds before.

"You all right?" Frank asked.

"I'll need a new pair of shoes," said Joe, glancing at the steam rising where the acid had splattered on his soles. "Now what?"

Frank let go of Joe's hands and started to work on Joe's ropes instead. "Now we try to untie each other before anyone gets back."

"Maybe I can be of some help." A light went on, and their uncle stood in the doorway again. His hand emerged from his pocket, holding a jackknife. "Sorry I took so long, but it took a few minutes to throw your lady friend and her assistant off my trail. I got back as soon as I could."

"Oh, we don't mind," Frank said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "We managed to keep busy."

Hugh knelt and cut their ropes. "Honestly, Frank. If you can't get out of a little trap like this, you have no future in the business." There was laughter in his voice, but it faded as his eyes met Frank's stern gaze. More seriously, he said, "I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"True," Frank agreed. He stood, rubbing his wrists, as his uncle cut Joe free. "But it can wait until we get out of here."

"I can't give you one," Hugh continued as they ran for the stairs. "This is top security. You'll have to trust me."

Frank stopped abruptly, his eyes on a phone on a pedestal in the hall. He snatched the receiver from the cradle. "Talk to us or the cops. At this point it doesn't make much difference to me."

"No!" Hugh shouted. His hand slammed down on the cradle, cutting off the line. "All right. But it's a long story. Let's talk while we walk."

Frank nodded, and they left the house.

"Why didn't you ever tell us you were a spy?" asked Joe as they strolled toward their uncle's apartment.

Hugh laughed. "That's not the sort of thing you tell people, Joe. Especially not people you like. Have you told your parents about the work you've done for the Network?"

"He's got a point, Joe," Frank said. "Okay, Uncle Hugh, so you're a spy. It's not the past that concerns me, it's the present." He held up the crown and examined it. "Charity was right. This isn't gold." He ran his fingers over it. "It feels like some kind of glass, or plastic."