The Lazarus Plot (7 page)

"You're still in town?" Callie said. "When I saw you a couple of hours ago, you said you had to make some kind of trip, so we couldn't see each other tonight. And why on earth have you and Joe put on those hunting outfits?" There was a hurt look in her eyes. "I know you're involved in a lot of mysterious activities, but you've let me in on them before. What's the matter, don't you trust me anymore?"

"Look, Callie, I promise I'll explain everything as soon as I can," said Frank. "But not now, okay?" "If that's the way you want it," Callie said, and turned on her heel and strode away.

"Sometimes I wonder what you see in her," said Joe. "Every time we get a case, she wants to horn in."

"You've got to be kidding," said Frank. "I wouldn't mind Callie's help right now, except I can't see how anybody but ourselves can help us out of this mess. I'm getting more and more jittery thinking about what we're going to find out at home."

"Too bad Dad's not around," said Joe. "He could help us."

But Fenton Hardy, the-great detective who was the boys' father, was away with their mother, Laura Hardy, on a well-deserved Hawaiian vacation.

The only one at home was the Hardy boys' aunt Gertrude.

When she saw the boys come in, a worried look appeared on her face - a not uncommon occurrence. The smallest thing could set off alarm bells inside Aunt Gertrude-and her nephews provided unending sources of concern.

"What happened?" she asked. "Some kind of trouble? You raced out of here just a few hours ago without a word of explanation. And now you're back, wearing different clothes." "No trouble," Frank assured her as he headed for the stairs to his room.

"Just a little change of plans," Joe added, and followed Frank up the stairs, three steps at a time.

Frank and Joe went straight to Frank's room.

"We've got to warn the Network," said Joe as Frank warmed up his computer. "It's a shame we had to ditch that scrambler radio they gave us."

The Hardys had had to leave the radio behind while being pursued through the Adirondack Mountains by followers of the Cult of Crime.

"There's still the computer modem," Frank said, tapping the code numbers on his keyboard. But the screen went blank.

"What the - ?" he burst out, opening up the computer's case. Then his face got bleak. "The modem is gone. Our twins must have used it and taken it with them."

"Then we have no way to get in touch with the Network," said Joe.

Frank nodded. "Not by electronic connection-and certainly not in person. If only they trusted us enough to let us know where their headquarters are - ?"

His voice trailed off as the computer's disk drives began whirring. "Hey, I didn't start any programs.”

"Get back!" yelled Joe as the computer went up in a blinding flash.

FRANK'S CHAIR TOPPLED as he threw himself backward. He hit the floor hard, then rolled to his feet.

Joe charged the rogue computer with Frank's bedspread in his hands, ready to smother any fire.

But Frank had already reached the wall and pulled the plug, with a sizzle of electricity, the computer died down.

The Hardys stared at the smoldering wreck.

"Looks like our twins didn't just steal the modem. They set up a nasty surprise if anybody tried to use it." He waved away a thin wisp of smoke. "Even if they didn't nail me, they certainly nailed my computer.”

"Maybe the Network will give you a new one," suggested Joe.

Frank's face was grim. "Yeah, If we could get in touch with them." He slammed his fist against his palm in frustration. "If we just had a clue to where they are."

"It's the Gray Man's fault," said Joe angrily. "He should have told us where to find him, instead of keeping us at arm's length, like we were a couple of kids who'd spill the beans at the drop of a hat."

"The trouble is, he wasn't so wrong," said Frank. "After all, we did give the Lazarus goons the information they wanted."

"You mean I did," said Joe. "Okay, I admit it, so don't rub it in. But I'm not apologizing. I'd do it again, if it meant saving Iola. If that makes me a wimp, then I'm a wimp."

"Nobody's blaming anybody, and nobody's calling anybody a wimp," said Frank, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. Frank sometimes got mad at Joe, but when it came to a pinch like this, he wasn't going to see Joe hurt. "Let's not worry about water under the bridge. We have to worry about what happens now."

"What happens now is we stare at your computer and it stares back at us and," Joe shrugged and said, "We're beat."

But Frank wasn't about to throw in the towel. "When you're stumped by a problem, it means you have to look at it from another angle," he said. "We have to stop looking at this useless computer and look in other directions, starting with going through this room."

Joe shook his head. "What do you figure we'll find? Think our doubles left us a note telling us where they were going?"

Suddenly Frank said in an excited voice, "They just might have. Take a look at this." He was examining a notepad on his desk.

Joe hurried over, took a look, and then said with disgust, "Come on, Frank, this is no time for kidding. That's nothing but blank paper."

"You know how I like to keep my desk neat as opposed to yours," said Frank. "That's putting it mildly," said Joe. Frank's desk was always a model of efficient organization, while Joe's looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

"This notepad is out of place, sitting here in the middle of the desk," said Frank. "One of our doubles must have used it." "So what?" said Joe. "He took whatever he wrote with him."

"Let's see if he did," said Frank. Without explaining further, Frank emptied his pencil sharpener onto his desktop.

Joe leaned forward to watch. This had to be important, if Frank was soiling his precious work space.

Ignoring the shavings of wood, Frank took a pinch of graphite powder between his thumb and forefinger and sprinkled it on the notepad. Then he shook the notepad very gently, the way gold prospectors used to shake their pans when hunting for gold in streams, to separate grains of precious metal from the silt.

"Pay dirt!" Frank exclaimed, peering down at the paper.

The paper was no longer blank. The graphite dust had settled in indentations in the paper made when something had been written on the paper above it. .

"Now if we can just read it," Frank said, squinting hard. What he saw was: 7864 9 St.

"And then there's a couple of letters," he added.

Joe peered at the paper, his eyes straining to make out the faint black markings. "There's an S and an E."

"That's it. Seventy-eight sixty-four Ninth Street, Southeast. We've got it!" said Frank triumphantly.

"One little problem," said Joe. “We know the number, we know the street, but we don't know the city."

"But we can make a good guess," said Frank. “Washington, D.C., is the only city I know that has addresses like that. Its streets are designed to form concentric circles, and they're divided into different compass points."

"Anyway, it makes sense that the Network is located there," said Joe eagerly. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

“Let's do one thing first," said Frank, grabbing Joe's arm before he could dash out the door.

“What?" said Joe. ”We’re wasting time."

"Let's change clothes," said Frank. "We want to keep a low profile, and I kind of think that two guys in hunting clothes, carrying Remington hunting rifles, might attract a tiny bit of attention boarding the New York-Washington shuttle."

"Okay, but make it quick," said Joe, already on his way to his room to change.

Five minutes later he was back, wearing a pair of clean but very worn jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"My good pair of spare jeans is missing," he said. “Guess who must have taken them."

“I found the same thing," said Frank, who had been forced to put on an old pair of corduroys rather than the pressed Levi's he saved for special occasions. When they got downstairs, their aunt Gertrude confirmed their suspicions.

"I don't know what's come over you boys," she said. "Used to be that you wore the same clothes for months, until they had to be peeled off you. Today you come back in fishing clothes, go out in your best jeans, come back in hunting clothes, and now you've made another change."

"It must be a stage we're going through," said Joe. "You could look it up in a psychology book," said Frank, and paused. "Look, Aunt Gertrude, could we ask a little favor?" "What is it?" she said.

"Could we borrow your 'car for the day?" asked Frank. "We have to take a little trip, and ours broke down."

"I don't wonder," said Gertrude with a small sniff of triumph. "I always said you boys were foolish, spending all that time with those ancient cars that Joe digs up. No surprise that they keep breaking down. That's why I keep trading mine in every two years for a new model. I never have the least trouble."

Joe didn't mention that the main reason his aunt never had car trouble was that she never drove over thirty miles an hour and seldom drove more than ten miles at a stretch. He just said, "Well, maybe this has taught us a lesson."

"I certainly hope so," replied Gertrude. "But, anyway, can we borrow your car?" asked Frank.

"Well ... " Gertrude pretended to be thinking it over. But as the Hardys well knew, she had never denied her favorite nephews anything they asked. "If you promise to be careful, and to drive very, very slowly," she said.

"Definitely," said Joe as Gertrude opened up her handbag.

"Of course," said Frank as she handed him the car keys.

It was true what used-car salesmen claimed about cars that were owned by timid, elderly ladies. Aunt Gertrude's car was in great shape, at least at the start of the drive to New York. By the time Joe drove it into the parking lot at La Guardia Airport in New York; several years had been taken off its operating life. But it had done its job. The Hardys were able to catch a shuttle flight to Washington just before the boarding ramp was wheeled away. And less than an hour later, they were hailing a cab at Washington National Airport.

As the cab drove up, Frank said, "Seventy eight sixty-four Ninth Street, Southeast, please and fast. It's an emergency."

The driver turned around to look at them. "You sure you want that address?"

Frank double-checked the address he had written down on a piece of paper. "That's it. Seventy-eight sixty four, Ninth Street, Southeast."

The driver shrugged. "Okay. It's your money," he said in a tone that clearly meant, "It's your funeral."

When they arrived at their destination, the Hardy boys saw why the cabbie had sounded so skeptical.

Seventy-eight sixty-four Ninth Street, South east, was in the middle of the Washington, D.C., slums, the part of the city that visitors to the capital seldom saw or wanted to see. The street was lined with decayed or abandoned buildings, and idle men lounged on street corners or in front of bars, looking as if they were aching to rip off any stranger. The air reeked with poverty and the violence that poverty bred.

"Want me to wait?" the cabbie asked. "You won't be able to hail a cab in this neighborhood. And you might not get one even if you phone."

"We'll take our chances," said Frank as he paid the man. "We might be awhile."

He waited until the cab drove off before he turned to Joe. "I wonder what our chances are. I've got a strong hunch we've fouled up. This doesn't exactly look like official Washington."

"Sure doesn't," said Joe, glancing at 7864 Ninth Street, Southeast. It was a five-story brick building that looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century and not been repaired since. Graffiti was scrawled on its walls, missing panes of glass had been replaced with dirty cardboard in many of its windows, and paint was peeling from its door. "Know what I'm thinking?" "I'm afraid so," said Frank. "We've got the wrong address," said Joe. "Which leaves us - "

"Nowhere." Frank finished his thought glumly. "But we might as well make sure." He pressed the buzzer. The front door was opened by a white-haired man who was clearly the building super. He was wearing paint-splattered, grime covered, tattered denim work clothes. But what was most noticeable was his size. He was at least six-feet-eight and close to three hundred pounds.

"What do you want?" he said in a hostile voice, looking meaningfully at the baseball bat he held in one hand.

"Uh, guess we have the wrong address," said Joe, stepping back.

"Yeah, sorry to have disturbed you," added Frank.

"Ain't got no use for strangers 'round here," the man muttered, and slammed the door.

"Well, that's that," said Joe. "We're back to square zero."

"Not quite," replied Frank.

"What do you mean?" asked Joe, with sudden hope. He knew the look in Frank's eyes. He could practically hear wheels spinning in Frank's brain. Frank had seen something. "You notice that guy's work boots?" said Frank.

"No. I was too busy looking at his baseball bat," answered Joe. "Why, Something funny about a super wearing work boots?"

"Nothing funny about ordinary work boots," said Frank. "But those work boots had a high polish. The kind of polish the army likes its men to have. Or the secret service or the CIA or the FBI or any other kind of organization. Some habits are hard to break, and shined shoes is one of them."

"So this guy could work for the Network, and this place could be a front," said Joe, nodding. "It would be a perfect cover."

"It's easy enough to find out," added Joe. "We just have to buzz him again and tell who we are and ask to see the Gray Man."

"Think a second," said Frank. "How can we prove who we are? Our doubles have our IDs."

He looked down at his bandaged thumb. "They even have the thumbprints that are on our IDs. That guy would never let us in."

"We could try to overpower him," said Joe.

But he didn't sound enthusiastic about their chances of overcoming that man-mountain.

"There are some things even karate can't do," agreed Frank. He thought a moment. "But we could fake him out." "What do you mean?" asked Joe.