The Ghostwriter Secret (12 page)

Men worked at desks, wearing bright sweaters and sensible slacks.

“Can I help you?” asked the man closest to the door.

This was not part of the plan. Steve and Dana stepped deeper into the room, and Steve looked closely at the men. They were big men, most of them very hairy, three of them bearded. All of them wore khaki slacks and cable-knit sweaters. Each man's sweater was a different color. One man—the biggest one of them all, a huge, pale man with a bald head and dark black eyebrows—was wearing a sweater whose color could only be described as blue raspberry. None of them looked particularly interested in fighting.

Steve was so confused he couldn't move. What was going on here?

Suddenly a voice came from behind them. “Let me guess: You boys are looking for MacArthur Bart?”

Steve and Dana wheeled around and found themselves looking up at a tall man with a green sweater and a large scar across his face. How had he snuck up on them? The man put a hand on each boy's shoulder. His grip was firm.

“My name is Jack Antrim.” He smiled. “What are your names?”

“Dana,” said Dana.

Jack Antrim's face brightened. “My mother's name is Dana.”

Dana exhaled through his nose.

“And you?” Antrim asked Steve.

“Carl,” Steve replied. He was going undercover until he figured out who this guy was and what he'd done with MacArthur Bart.

“Dana, Carl, my office is upstairs. “ He nodded toward a set of steel steps, barely visible on the other side of the warehouse, that led up to a mezzanine. “I think the two of you should come with me.” He spun them around and squeezed their shoulders so hard it hurt. Steve and Dana walked toward the stairs. They didn't have a choice.

J
ACK
A
NTRIM'S OFFICE
wasn't even technically a room: only three walls went from the floor to the ceiling, and the fourth wall stopped halfway, so Steve could see the warehouse below and the men typing away. Steve and Dana sat in dingy chairs. Antrim sat behind his desk, which was in front of a large window, so Steve had to squint when he looked at him.

“Dana, Carl.” Jack Antrim rubbed his left temple. He paused for an uncomfortable length of time. “You would think after all this time it would get easier, but …” He sighed. “This is the hardest part of my job.”

This wasn't going at all like Steve expected.

Jack Antrim took a deep breath. “The men down there are all ghostwriters. Do you know what a ghostwriter is?”

“Sure,” said Steve. “It's someone who writes ghost stories.”

Antrim chuckled gently. “No, but that's a very good guess, Carl. A ghostwriter—”

Steve didn't like Antrim's chuckling, and he didn't like being wrong. So he interrupted. “Then is it someone who writes down things ghosts say?” Steve asked.

“Like a medium,” Dana offered helpfully.

“No. Ghostwriters are—”

“You're not trying to tell me that those guys down there are actually ghosts?”

“What? No. It doesn't have anything to do with ghosts, okay? Just listen to me and I'll tell you. Ghostwriters are people who write under different names, instead of their own. Sometimes they write under names of people who exist—for instance, a famous person might hire a ghostwriter to write their autobiography, and then pretend that they wrote it themselves. But sometimes ghostwriters write under the names of people who don't exist at all.”

“So what's this got to do with MacArthur Bart?”

“Carl, MacArthur Bart doesn't exist. He never
has. The Bailey Brothers books were written by ghostwriters.”

A million questions flooded Steve's skull. It was like his brain was underwater.

“B
UT THE SIGN ON THE DOOR SAYS
you guys are a syndicate!” said Steve. “Doesn't that mean you're criminals?”

Antrim laughed loudly. “You've been reading too many Bailey Brothers books. Yes, we're a syndicate. A literary syndicate.”

“What?”

“We're a group of ghostwriters who collaborate on books. The B. stands for Bart—our pseudonym. The original Bailey Brothers books were written by a bunch of different ghostwriters: newspapermen, college students, even a Canadian. You didn't think one
man could write fifty-eight books in fifteen years, did you?”

“Fifty-nine,” said Steve. “You're forgetting
The Bailey Brothers' Detective Handbook
.”

“That's right,” said Antrim. His eyes became suddenly sad. “You're obviously a big fan. This must be hard for you.”

Steve didn't say anything.

“My grandfather, Ed Antrim, started the B. Syndicate. I guess you could say that he's the real MacArthur Bart, although he died years ago, and he never wrote a single Bailey Brothers book. He hired other people to write them. That way he could publish lots of books very quickly. His writers earned a hundred dollars per book. And my grandfather became a very rich man.”

“Why doesn't everyone know about this?”

“A lot of people do,” said Antrim. “There are books about it. Magazine articles.” He stood and walked over to a large metal filing cabinet. Antrim pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer and removed a folder, then locked it back up again. “Here, have a look. Of course, most kids who read the books don't know. It would be bad for business. Kids want a hero, someone to believe in. So most adults let kids believe. It's harmless, really.”

Steve was looking through the folder. It was true—the first paragraph of almost every article about the B. Syndicate mentioned that MacArthur Bart didn't exist. One magazine article was called “The Man Who Was Never There: MacArthur Bart and the Men Behind the Bailey Brothers Mysteries.” Steve was overwhelmed.

“I know this probably wasn't what you were expecting. You were probably hoping to meet your favorite writer today. This happens a couple times a year: A kid will track us down, and then I have to break the bad news to him. We try to keep this address a secret, but I guess MacArthur Bart fans tend to be good detectives.” Antrim was looking out the window, but he suddenly turned back toward Steve and Dana. “How did you two find out about us, anyway?”

“What?” said Steve. “Oh. I called the publishers in New York and they gave me the forwarding address.” Steve lied without knowing why he was lying.

Antrim frowned. “They're not supposed to do that.” He wrote something down on a piece of paper.

“Well, like I said, I'm sorry to disappoint you, boys. But come on,” Antrim said, standing up. “The least I can do is give you a little tour.”

Steve and Dana followed Antrim back downstairs and onto the warehouse floor. They picked their
way around the stacks of Bailey Brothers books.

“Sorry this is such a maze,” Antrim said. “We're sort of a combination warehouse and office—it saves on rent.”

Steve paused and looked up at stacked copies of
The Riddle of the Eagle's Fang
. That was a classic—the second-to-last Bailey Brothers book ever published. Then Steve thought of something and caught up to Antrim.

“Mr. Antrim, if you guys write the Bailey Brothers Mysteries, and there hasn't been a new Bailey Brothers book in decades, why are you all here?”

“Good question, Carl,” Antrim said as they emerged into the open area where the ghostwriters sat at their desks. “We stopped writing Bailey Brothers books years ago, but we'll ghostwrite anything at this point. For instance, the B. Syndicate wrote the Kate Sugarwood, Girl Detective series. You ever read one of those?”

“No,” Steve said. They sounded good, but they had pink covers, and Steve was afraid people would laugh at him if he pulled one out at school.

“And we don't just do kid detective series. A lot of books are ghostwritten. Pop stars, presidents, athletes—none of them write their own autobiographies. They hire ghostwriters to do the work for
them. Ed over there”—Antrim gestured toward the ghostwriter with the largest beard—“he wrote Cyndi Lauper's memoir.”

“Who's that?” Dana asked.

“She wrote that song ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun,'” Antrim said.

“What was the book called?” Steve asked.

“
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
,” Ed answered, scratching his beard.

“So why haven't there been any more Bailey Brothers books?” Steve asked.

“Well,” said Antrim thoughtfully, “we took a long break. But do you want to know a secret? We're working on number fifty-nine right now.”

Steve felt a surge of excitement. “What's it called?” he asked.

“
The Clue of the Viking's Tear
.”

That sounded pretty ace.

“Jake's writing it—the old-fashioned way, on the same typewriter that was used to write
The Treasure in Trouble Harbor
.” Steve looked over at the ghostwriter with the typewriter. The sleeves of his tangerine sweater were rolled up, and his arms were folded across his broad chest. His head was down, and he seemed deep in thought. Then, suddenly, he sat up straight, pulled down his sleeves, and
starting pounding away furiously at the keyboard. The keys clicked and the bell clanged in a wonderful cacophony.

“That, boys, is what inspiration sounds like,” said Antrim.

Soon the ghostwriter reached the bottom of the page and pulled the sheet of bright white paper from the machine.

“Want a sneak peek?” Antrim asked.

“Sure,” Steve said, the thought of reading a new Bailey Brothers book almost eclipsing his disappointment about Bart.

The ghostwriter handed the paper to Antrim, who handed it to Steve. Dana looked over his shoulder and both boys read.

raged and the wind whipped outside the Baileys' refuge in the cliffs. The boys removed their snowshoes and took stock of their possessions.


“Four flares, a box of matches, and two cod sandwiches,” lamented Shawn.


Kevin managed to will a stoic
smile. “We still have the treasure map.”


The boys built a small fire with some kindling and wood they found near the mouth of the cave, and soon they were thawing, their spirits buoyed, as always, by sandwiches.


“I sure hope Haskol isn't sore when he finds out we wrecked his plane,” Kevin reflected.


“The Ice Bear Gang must have sabotaged the fuel tank, knowing we'd be flying over here,” Shawn mused. “I knew there was something sneaky about that mechanic back in Reykjavik!”


“Well, Haskol won't mind as long as we find Egil Skallagrimson's treasure!” Shawn rejoined. “Well, my stars,” he murmured, studying the map in the light of the flame. “Doesn't this look familiar?”


Kevin joined his brother and
peered at the map. “Speeding cheetahs! You're right. These cliffs are the last place Skallagrimson visited! This cave must be his hiding place!”


“Guess we're lucky we crashed,” Shawn chuckled ruefully.


“I knew the cliffs would be a great refuge from the storm! But who could have guessed they'd be the answer to a mystery?”


Just then there was a noise.


“Someone's here,” Kevin whispered.


Many pairs of eyes gleamed.


“It's a route of wolves!” cried Shawn.


The wolves approached the fire. The leader of the pack bared his teeth as he


That was the end of the page. A cliffhanger. Classic. Steve gave the paper back to the ghostwriter, who put
it face down on a stack by his typewriter. “Thanks,” said Steve. “It's great so far.”

“Glad you like it.”

“Well, Dana, Carl,” said Antrim, “that concludes your tour of the B. Syndicate. Oh, wait, hold on, I almost forgot.” He ran back to the stacks of red books and pulled one from the top of a shorter pile. “Here's something for you.” He opened it up to its title page, scrawled something quickly, and tossed it to Steve. Steve recognized the cover: Bailey Brothers #22:
The Treasure on the Chinese Junk
. He opened it up and read the inscription.

Suddenly the weight of what he'd learned in the last half hour hit him again. There was no MacArthur Bart. His hero was a lie. Steve felt like the butt of a mean joke.

“Now, if you boys don't mind, we've got some work to do around here,” Antrim said. He shuffled
them out the door. Steve stood in the afternoon sunlight, blinking, overwhelmed. He pulled out his notebook and a pen.