The Borgia Dagger Read online

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 13

  The Borgia Dagger

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  Frank Hardy's eyes widened. "Watch out!" he shouted. He ran to stop Callie Shaw before she took another step. With catlike reflexes, he sprang after her. Whipping his arm around her, he pulled her back just in time.

  "Wh - what are you doing?" Callie sputtered as she stumbled backward over the dirt path and clutched Frank. She looked around for the unknown menace. But all she noticed was the swaying of the rushes in the wind, and the silver blue surface of the river as it raced by.

  Frank loosened his grip. With a sigh of relief, he cast his glance down to a spot on the ground. "It's poison ivy," he said. "You just missed stepping in it."

  Callie looked at him in disbelief. "Poison ivy?" she cried. "You scared me like that because of a little poison ivy? I thought we were in danger of losing our lives or something!"

  "Well, poison ivy isn't a whole lot of fun, you know." Frank said, slightly embarrassed.

  Callie straightened herself out and picked up the picnic basket she had dropped. "Frank, relax — you're not working today, okay? This Is - exactly why I wanted to have this picnic. I mean, here we are in this beautiful little forest with a river beside us — it's June, the sun is out, you're not working on a case right now, and," — she smiled up at him — "we're finally all alone." "You're right," Frank said, gently wrapping arms around his girlfriend. "I over reacted — I guess I'm still jumpy from tracking down guerrillas in the jungles of Central America."

  A breeze wafted past them, carrying the strong, sweet smell of honeysuckle. "I'm glad you're deciding to wind down, Frank," Callie said. "Sometimes I think you'll never learn how to relax."

  Frank chuckled. "You don't need to worry about that, Callie. I wouldn't dream of doing anything."

  "right," she answered, looking directly into his eyes.

  "Next time," Frank whispered, returning her tender gaze, "I'll let you step right into the stuff."

  Callie pushed herself away from him. "You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you, Frank Hardy?"

  Frank tried to choke back a laugh. "Oh, Callie, come on, I was kidding — "

  "Very funny, Frank. I went through all the trouble to make sandwiches, then I found this remote spot fifteen miles from Bayport — " Just then a loud voice rang out through the woods. "TOOOOO BEEEEEE, ... "

  "What's that?" Frank said.

  "·And all you can do is make fun of — " Callie suddenly stopped and listened.

  "OR NOT TOOOO BEEEE ... "

  "I don't know," she said. "Sounds like someone reciting poetry."

  "THAAAT IS THE QUESTION ... "

  "No—not poetry," Frank said, frowning as he thought. "It's from Hamlet—Act Three, Scene One, where Hamlet considers suicide."

  "It's probably some frustrated actor sounding off. Let's see if we can find a quieter spot."

  "Actually, that guy's voice sounds kind of strange. What do you think, Callie?" They listened again to the booming voice. "TO DIE, TO SLEEEEP—NO MORE! ... " "He does sound odd," Callie admitted. "But — "

  "Come on, let's check it out," Frank interrupted, eagerly making his way down the hill toward the river. Reluctantly, Callie followed.

  "FOR IN THAT SLEEP OF DEATH WHAT DREAMS MAY COME, ... "

  "Now he sounds really weird," Callie remarked as they followed a bend in the river.

  Just ahead of them, an old wooden bridge drooped over the river. Its supports were cracked, and its rotting floorboards dangled in the water. On either end hung tattered strips of orange tape that had once stretched across the bridge to stop people from crossing.

  It seemed that common sense alone would have prevented anyone from stepping onto the bridge — especially with the strong currents of the river below.

  Just then Callie and Frank made out a dark figure in the sun's glare. A silver-haired man in black clothing stood in the middle of the bridge, facing away from them.

  "FOR WHOOO WOULD BEAR THE WHIPS, AND SCORNNNS OF TIIIME, ... " "He's a lunatic, Frank!" Callie whispered. "Listen to him!" Frank picked up his pace as the man raised his arms upward. "I am listening. This is the part where Hamlet thinks of ending his life with — " "WHEN HE HIMSELF MIGHT HIS QUIET - MUST MAKE WITH — "

  "What's he got in his hand?" Callie asked. "I can't tell — " "A BARE BODKIN!" "What's a bare bodkin?" Frank burst into a sprint toward the bridge. "It's a dagger! This guy's serious!"

  Callie immediately shouted, "Don't do it, sir! Everything will be all right!"

  Startled, the man spun around to see the two of them running along the riverbank. His face was lined with wrinkles, and despite his look of utter weariness and despair, not a hair was out of place.

  "Stay your futile efforts, foolish youths!" the man shouted. "All is lost - my time is at hand!"

  With a sweeping gesture, he raised the dagger high and pointed it toward his own chest.

  Frank could see there was no time to climb up to the man. He slid into the mud just under the end of the bridge.

  "Into the great everlasting, I commend my spirit!" the man bellowed, ready to plunge his knife downward.

  "Noooooo!" Callie screamed.

  At that moment Frank grabbed onto one of the ' bridge's broken supports and shook it with all his strength. The old bridge creaked and wobbled. Losing his balance, the man reached out with one hand to grab the railing. Splintering planks flew in all directions.

  Then, with a crack that echoed all along the river, the wooden support gave way. One side of the bridge jerked down, and the man slid feet first on his stomach into the roaring current, his right hand still clutching the dagger.

  A bloodcurdling scream sliced the air just before his silvery mane disappeared below the surface. Callie stared in horror as the current carried the man toward her.

  "He's heading for the rocks!" she cried.

  Gasping and flailing, the man lifted his head out of the water. "Help me! I can't swim!" he managed to sputter.

  Instantly, both Frank and Callie dove in after him. The man bobbed up just above and then below the surface. He looked panic-stricken. Fighting the current, they caught up to him. Callie reached for his shoulders—only to be met by the gleaming blade of the dagger as it whooshed through the air, inches from her face.

  "I can't get near him!" Callie shouted.

  "You've got to calm down, sir!" Frank called out. "Just keep your arms still! You'll float long enough for me to bring you in!"

  "I—can't—swim — " the man repeated, choking on silt-laden water. Frank realized the man was unable to help. He was blind with fear.

  With a powerful lunge, Frank grabbed him around the chest. The man kicked and thrashed even harder, waving the knife in his hand.

  "Watch it!" yelled Callie.

  Keeping his right arm around the man, Frank reached across and grasped the man's right forearm with his free hand. He jammed his thumb into a pressure point on the wrist and swung the man's arm upward. The dagger flew into the air and plopped into the river ten feet upstream.

  By then the man was beginning to lose strength.

  As Frank struggled to swim with him, Callie glanced up and was startled to see a line of jagged rocks only fifty feet away.

  "You have to let him go, Frank," Callie said. "We'll never get away in time!"

  "He's unconscious! Help me out!"

  Straining with the effort, Callie swam to Frank and grabbed one of the man's arms. Together, they slowly towed him to the riverbank, narrowly missing the rocks.

  They laid the man's limp body on the wet ground. After a minute of Frank's mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the man suddenly coughed and came to.

 
; "Wha — where — " he sputtered, trying to focus his eyes. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

  "You survived without a scratch," Frank said. "Looked like you were having a rough time up there, huh?"

  " 'A rough time,' he says," the man muttered. His voice was weak but full of anger. "Oh, callow, fallow youth—you do still believe in the unquestioned perseverance of life at any cost, don't you?"

  "Wait a minute," Frank said firmly. "Let's have it slowly, and in English. Who are you, and what were you doing up there?"

  "I am a troubled man, sir," the stranger answered, throwing back his head in a grand gesture as Callie helped him to sit up. "Tyrone Grant is the name." He dropped his gaze downward and nodded sadly. "Yes, the Tyrone Grant of the stage and screen. Don't be shocked."

  Hearing nothing but silence from Frank and Callie, he looked up to see their blank stares. "I can see you don't frequent the art movie houses, do you?"

  Frank and Callie shook their heads.

  "Just as well. I'd shatter your image of me. Now I'd like to ask you a question. Just what right do you have in trying to keep me from my task?"

  "I don't care what you say, Mr. Grant," Callie said softly, "suicide is never the answer. Think of your family — "

  Grant's steel gray eyes bored into Callie. "My family? You must mean that woman I was once married to, who left me for a Hollywood film editor!"

  "I - I'm sorry to hear that," Callie said.

  "Oh, I haven't even begun yet. There's not much work these days in 'quality' films, you know. I was barely paying the bills with my nonacting job—and now I've lost that, too! What does a man of my age and circumstances have to live for? What? What?" He looked around at the ground. "Where's my dagger?"

  "I'm afraid it's in the river, Mr. Grant," Frank said. "Listen, why don't you let us give you a ride home? Maybe you should get some rest, think things over."

  "That knife was a Grant family heirloom! I'll sue! Not only do you rob me of the dignity of killing myself, but you save my life and throw away the most treasured possession. ..."

  Callie and Frank looked at each other and rolled their eyes. As they turned to climb the hill, they beckoned Grant to come with them.

  Grant complained all the way, but he did follow them up the hill and through the woods to Callie's car. Callie pulled an old wool blanket out of the trunk and gave it to Grant to wrap around himself.

  By the time Callie started the car, Grant was sobbing in the back seat.

  "Please, Mr. Grant," Callie said. "I'm sure everything will work out. Why don't you tell me ♦your address?"

  "Ninety-four Lakeview Avenue!" he answered, brushing away tears with the back of his hand. "And if you insist on preserving my life, you could at least have the courtesy to give me a tissue!"

  As Frank handed back a tissue, Callie entered a section of Bayport that was unfamiliar to her. Grant continued to complain as she drove through the outskirts of the city. Just past a bait-and-tackle store was a sharp bend in the road. Callie approached at thirty miles an hour.

  "Slow down," Frank whispered. "You're driving too fast!"

  Callie braked, gritting her teeth. She didn't usually drive fast, but this time she'd had enough.

  Frank and she had risked their lives to save Grant's, and the actor wasn't the least bit grateful.

  "And furthermore," Grant said, in a booming voice, "I would appreciate your not leaking this to the press!"

  Abruptly Callie stopped the car and whirled around to face Grant.

  "Mr. Grant!" she said sharply. "I've listened for long enough. Like it or not, we just saved your life. Now will you please ... " she said, not finishing the thought as she pulled onto the street again.

  Grant's face lost all its color as he stared silently past Callie and out the windshield. A minute later Frank grabbed the steering wheel of the car, which was entering a blind turn too quickly. "Callie, pay attention!" Frank shouted.

  A blue flatbed truck whizzed around the corner, blowing its horn and just missing them.

  "You see what you're making me do, Mr. Grant?" Callie said. They all breathed a sigh of relief, even Tyrone Grant, as Callie slowed the car for the turn.

  And suddenly there, in the wrong lane, was a fiery red sports car convertible, hurtling straight toward them!

  Chapter 2

  "Hang on!" Callie screamed as she yanked the steering wheel far to the right. The car swerved into a guardrail and bounced off, just as the sports car spun away from them, its tires squealing.

  Crrrunch! A sickening noise filled the air as Callie pulled her car to a stop on the side of the road. Callie and Frank turned and saw the red car nudged up against a telephone pole.

  "Are you all right?" Frank asked.

  "Fine," Callie said. "I think we got the better end of the deal." · They both hopped out and ran to the other car. It was only dented in a bit in the front.

  "I'm fine, too, you know!" Grant shouted after them. "What's become of your great concern for ' my life?"

  As Frank and Callie approached the left door, it flew open. A shrill voice pierced the air: "Why don't you watch where you're driving?" Brushing herself off, a tall redheaded girl of about eighteen climbed out of the car. She adjusted her three gold necklaces and smoothed down the wrinkles on her tight jumpsuit. She shot a poisonous glare at Frank and Callie before putting on her sunglasses. Then she walked over to Frank and Callie. There was something very familiar about her, Frank thought.

  "Look what you've done to my Lamborghini!" she cried out. "It's ruined!"

  "Well, hardly that. I am awfully sorry about it, though," Callie said. "But I think you were the one — "

  "Don't try to lay the blame on me! I — "

  "Look," Frank interrupted, "the insurance companies will settle it. You have to exchange insurance information. The only important thing now is, how are you?"

  The redheaded girl sneered. "I was fine until you came along. Now I have to call a cab and call my garage—and I'm late enough as it is!"

  She marched back to the driver's seat and pulled a mobile phone out of the car. Frank tried to remember where he'd seen her face before.

  "Hello, Harley?" she said into the phone. "Hello? I can't hear you. ... Yes, it's me. ... Tessa! ... Tessa! ... What? ... " With a frustrated cry, she threw the phone back in the car.

  "It's broken!" she said. "What am I supposed to do now? Walk?"

  Fighting an urge to tell her off, Callie said, "Well, my car is okay. Can I give you a ride?"

  "Were you driving?" the girl asked bitterly.

  "Yes."

  "I'll go, but only if he drives," she said, waving a finger at Frank.

  Callie shrugged her shoulders and headed back to her car, giving Frank a look of exasperation as she passed him.

  Frank tried to take the girl's arm but she drew away. Throwing back her silky red hair, she walked toward Callie's car.

  "By the way," Frank called after her, "aren't you Tessa Carpenter, the one I read about — "

  " — in Personality magazine," Tessa said sarcastically, finishing Frank's sentence. "Yes, that's me. Ridiculous article, wasn't it? 'Bayport's poor little rich debutante — heiress to the famed Cliffside Mansion and the area's largest art collection ... but how has she survived the tragic loss of her parents?' " She rolled her eyes. "Now I suppose you want to be my best friend, like everyone else."

  I wouldn't dream of it, Frank thought to himself as they both climbed into the car. But to Tessa, he just chuckled and said, "No, no, I was just interested in your story. Seems like a huge place for one person to live."

  After making her phone calls from a nearby phone booth, Tessa climbed into the backseat cautiously, as if she were entering a garbage truck. "The Bayport Museum—and fast," she said to Frank.

  By this time, Tyrone Grant had curled himself Into a ball in his half of the backseat, wrapped from head to toe in the blanket Callie had given him. Tessa peered at him over her sunglasses. "You didn't put me back here with a sick person, did
you?"

  Grant's only reaction was to shift slightly under the blanket.

  "Well, not exactly," Frank said. "He's okay, probably just exhausted. What's happening at the museum? Checking on the Carpenter collection?"

  Tessa smirked. "Not checking on it. Taking it back."

  "Really?" Frank said. "Personality says the collection makes up about half the museum!"

  "They're wrong," Tessa answered dryly. "It's about sixty percent. But it all belongs to me now, and I've decided the paintings would spruce up the house."

  I wonder what the curator says about this, Frank thought.

  He soon found out. As they approached the museum, they noticed a group of five men gathered around a truck at the side of the building. Four of them wore plain gray uniforms and were trying to load large crates onto the truck. The fifth was a stocky man in a dark blue suit and wire-rimmed glasses. As the workmen brought the crates to the truck, the fifth man was shouting and gesturing angrily, his thinning blond hair flopping in front of his reddened face. It appeared that he was trying to keep the men from working.

  "This is the last straw," Tessa muttered under her breath. "I have to talk to the fat guy," she said to Frank.

  Frank drove up a circular driveway to the side of the museum and Tessa hopped out. "Albert, Albert," she said, shaking her head. "What are you doing to these poor men?"

  The man wiped his brow with a handkerchief and pushed up his glasses. "Miss Carpenter, may I remind you that this artwork is on permanent loan to the museum—as per our agreement with your family, signed thirty years ago by your grandfather! As curator, I cannot let these out of my sight!"

  Tessa nodded patiently, "Albert, you yourself said you couldn't find this so-called agreement, remember?"

  "You've got to give me some time! After the fire last year, we moved all our old files to the warehouse upstate, and many things got mixed up - "

  "Look," Tessa said, continuing, "you've seen a copy of my parents' will. The collection belongs to me now, and I want it back. Besides, don't you think you've had these things long enough? Maybe it's time to redecorate."

  "Redecorate? Young lady, we are talking about a museum, not a bedroom! These are priceless paintings and sculptures—the museum is nothing - without them!"