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  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 44

  Castle Fear

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "This FOG gives me the creeps." Joe Hardy's broad, usually smiling face was creased in a frown as he peered into the thick murk around him. "Anybody could be lurking in this stuff five feet away from us and we wouldn't have a clue."

  The narrow two-and three-story town houses along the cobblestoned lane were blurred in the heavy mist. The only tinge of color Joe caught came from the dozens of small lighted windows - yellowish rectangles floating in the air.

  This was a fashionably old-fashioned section of London. The Hardys, eighteen-year-old Frank and Joe, who was a year younger, had parked their rented car just off Fulham Road and were heading for the temporary home of their latest client. The fog was rolling in from the Thames River, a few blocks to their right, causing Frank and Joe to zip up their lightweight windbreakers against the dampness.

  "You could hide an army in this soup." Joe ran a hand through his slightly damp blond hair. "Why can't it just decide to rain? We'll probably be bumping into Jack the Ripper next."

  His older brother's dark eyes glinted with suppressed laughter. "I sort of like the fog."

  "Why?"

  "Well, we're in London. And London is famous for its fog."

  "It's also famous for its fish and chips. And I'd rather bump into a batch of those right now." Joe hunched his broad shoulders in his jacket. "This continual mist is getting me down."

  "Maybe our new case will cheer you up."

  "Right," said Joe. "But I was expecting some fun, at long last. We didn't have much, studying our brains out for those summer courses at Oxford - there were those guys trying to blow them out, too." In the Hardys' last adventure, Strategic Moves, they had not only studied at the famous university, they'd broken up a kidnap plot designed to destroy East-West relations.

  "I know what you mean," Frank admitted. "But that old friend of Dad's out in Hollywood needed some help. Since Dad's got that case in South America and we're right on the spot, it's up to us."

  "Right, right. The family tradition."

  Fenton Hardy, their father, was a private investigator of international renown. Frank and Joe were pretty good detectives in their own right, and they'd often handled cases their father was too busy to attend to. That was once again the situation tonight.

  "Keep in mind that working on a case is also probably better for your health," Frank pointed out. "Since your idea of fun always includes eating an entire pizza by yourself and then topping it off with - "

  He was interrupted by the harsh crack of a pistol shot somewhere nearby. A slug whizzed past, close enough for Frank to feel the breeze of its passing whip through his dark hair.

  He dived to the sidewalk and rolled. Joe hit the ground and stretched out flat.

  Another shot came whistling their way, but it passed harmlessly through the space where they'd been a few seconds earlier.

  Very quietly Joe asked, "What was that you were saying about this being healthy work?"

  Seconds passed, but there were no further shots. As Joe was pushing himself up off the damp pavement he caught a glimpse of someone running off about half a block away. The swirling fog swallowed up the dark figure an instant-after Joe had spotted it.

  "I think I see something." Joe got to his feet.

  "Joe, don't go chasing after an armed attacker."

  "Catch you later," Joe said as he started to run along the foggy London lane.

  The heavy gray mist seemed to disperse as he ran through it, spinning away into wispy tatters and then closing in behind him again.

  He was straining to hear. From up ahead he thought he could make out the sound of hurrying footfalls, but everything was muffled and indistinct.

  Then the running footsteps abruptly died. Joe heard only the sound of his own feet slapping the sidewalk.

  He kept running, staring into the mist, his blue eyes narrowed.

  Suddenly he was falling.

  Something unseen on the ground had tripped him. Joe's left knee hit the pavement first, sending a painful jolt up his thigh as he went sprawling.

  He shook his head ruefully and started to get up. Halfway to his feet, he paused.

  Joe pivoted, then went charging toward a shadowy doorway on his right. He hurried up the five stone steps and grabbed.

  "I'd rather you didn't do that."

  He let go of the dark-clad figure, moving back a pace. "Sorry. I didn't expect a - uh, young woman. What are you doing in there?"

  "Minding my own business, which is more than I can say for you."

  There was some light, though dim, coming through the stained-glass window in the upper half of the oaken door the young woman was leaning against. She was a pretty girl, about the same age as Joe. Her hair was a wild mass of red curls, and the angry flush didn't hide the sprinkle of freckles on her high cheekbones. Hazel eyes flashed at him. The girl wore a black raincoat and a navy blue scarf. Both of her hands gripped a huge black shoulder bag.

  Joe glared right back at her. "Somebody took a potshot at my brother and me."

  "Maybe he had a good reason. If you go around tackling innocent bystanders, you're bound to make enemies."

  "I never saw an innocent bystander hiding out in a doorway before."

  "Me? Hiding out?" the girl said. "I heard those shots and ducked in here."

  "And what are you doing out here in the first place?"

  "If you must know, I'm walking a dog."

  Joe glanced around. "What dog?"

  "His name is Bozo, and he belongs to the people I'm staying with," the girl replied. "But now he seems to have run off."

  "Have you seen anyone else, somebody who went running by?"

  "It's tough to see anything in fog like this."

  "Hear anything?"

  "Just the shots, then you doing a belly-flop on the cement."

  Joe was staring down at her shoulder bag. "I know I saw someone, a figure running this way."

  Sighing, the red-haired girl yanked the bag wide open. "Take a look if you think I have a gun in here," she invited.

  Joe leaned and looked. He saw a 35-millimeter camera and a small cassette recorder, but no sign of a gun. "Listening to you speak," he said, "I wouldn't say you sound British."

  "Neither do you."

  "I'm American. What's your excuse?"

  "Same as yours. I'm from Connecticut, over here on vacation. Some friends of mine are putting me up at an apartment nearby." She looked anxiously out at the dense fog. "If all the excitement is over for the night, I'd better find poor Bozo."

  "I don't know if you should be walking alone at this time of night, with a gunman on the loose," Joe said.

  But the girl seemed anxious to leave. "I have friends expecting me, and I'm already late. I'd better hurry."

  Joe nodded slowly. "I guess you'd better."

  "Nice meeting you." She smiled faintly before brushing past him and starting along the sidewalk, calling, "Bozo, where are you? C'mon, boy. Wouldn't you like a nice bone? Bozo, Bozo . . ."

  Very soon she was lost in the mist.

  Joe watched until the girl had disappeared. Now, why do I have a hard time believing that Bozo really exists? he asked himself.

  Shrugging, he retraced his steps. He walked a little slowly. Why rush when he knew he'd have to put up with a lecture from Frank about how dumb it was to go chasing gunmen?

  Joe wasn't too happy with himself, either. He'd gone charging off after danger and had only caught a redhead - and an unfriendly one at that. She was cute, though, he had to admit to himself.

  Too bad she was probably a liar. Joe had a strong suspicion she'd been putting him on, yet he couldn't believe she was actual
ly the person who'd fired at him and Frank.

  He got back to where they'd hit the dirt, but Frank wasn't around.

  Moving along another quarter of a block, Joe spotted his brother in the doorway of a large brick town house. Frank seemed to be looking into the shadowy entryway and was hunched over oddly.

  "Hey, Frank," Joe called. "Why are you standing that way? You hurt?"

  "Not exactly." His brother answered without turning. "It's mostly because this gentleman here has a gun jammed into my stomach."

  Chapter 2

  Frank stared down at the gun, a flashy chrome-plated revolver. The man holding it with the barrel pressed into Frank's middle was about forty. He was short, deeply tanned, and not dressed for the chilly, misty London night. He was clad in prefaded jeans, a flamboyant yellow-and-red Hawaiian shirt, and white tennis shoes.

  "Come where I can see you, kid," the man told Joe, looking out around Frank. "Don't make any sudden moves, don't try to pull a piece on me - or your pal here buys the farm."

  Frank managed a glance over at his approaching brother. "I've been trying to explain to this gentleman that - "

  "You can't con me," interrupted the guy with the gun. "I'm turning both of you over to the London Metropolitan Police. I'll prove these crimes aren't a publicity stunt. As if somebody of Larry Berman's stature in the industry would try the old 'somebody's threatening my client' bit."

  He puffed up his chest. "Hey, does Larry Herman - one of the slickest agents in Hollywood - need cheap publicity stunts to promote a respected young actor like Jed Shannon? No way, friends, nope, not at all. His last film, Slam Dan cm' in Rio, broke all the records - "

  "Mr. Berman," Joe managed to get in, "we weren't behind that shooting you heard."

  "Oh yeah? Soon as I heard the shots - another of your cheap scare tactics - I grabbed my piece and ran out here. And who do I find skulking in the pea soup? This shifty-looking guy."

  "Does the name Fenton Hardy mean anything to you?" asked Frank.

  "Once I show you hoods to the cops, they'll realize Ted is in real danger and that I'm not - What was that name?"

  "Fenton Hardy is our father." Frank pulled back a little from the gun barrel. "He's a well-known detective."

  Joe added, "A producer friend of his named Norman S. Lenzer wanted him to - "

  "Nonnie, sure. He produced Jed's latest blockbuster, A Punk at Oxford. That's why we're in this country - to promote the picture.

  But I'm telling you, almost as soon as we're off the plane - bam! - trouble begins."

  "That's why we're here. Our father's busy with a case in South America, so Joe and I are going to handle this for you."

  "How are a pair of London street hoods going to help Jed Shannon?"

  Joe sighed. "We're not street hoods, Mr. Berman. We're not even from London."

  Berman lowered his gun. "This isn't a scam you're trying to pull on me?"

  "I'm Joe Hardy, he's Frank Hardy. We have an appointment to see you and your client, Jed Shannon, at nine o'clock tonight."

  The tanned agent frowned. "We are supposed to be meeting with the Hardys," he admitted. "But why were you popping those guns off?"

  "We weren't. Somebody shot at us, and I took off to chase the person. Meanwhile, Frank - What were you doing, Frank?"

  "Approaching the house here, and hoping you weren't off getting shot. Dumb move, Joe."

  "Not if I'd caught him - or her."

  "Hey, fellas." Berman put down his gun. "Suppose I see some ID. You - Frank, is it?"

  "I'm Joe."

  "Fine. Slowly and nonthreateningly, slip out your credentials."

  Joe took his wallet out of his hip pocket and opened it to his driver's license. "Here you go."

  "From Bayport, huh? Sounds like a real hick town." The agent tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. "Sorry I gave you guys a bad time. I've been pretty stressed out lately."

  Frank shrugged. "Suppose we go inside and talk about why?"

  "Good idea." Berman gestured at the door behind him. "Anything to get out of this London fog. Give me Hollywood any day."

  ***

  Jed Shannon was a dark, handsome young man in his early twenties, slim and about five foot ten. As he paced the living room of his rented town house, his clenched fists were jammed in the pockets of a black jacket, which he wore over a white T-shirt and black jeans.

  "It's reality time, Larry," he said to his agent.

  "I'm a big boy now, and I don't need guarding like some - "

  "Kid, you can't go running out into the street - especially in a strange city - to go chasing after a gunman. That's why I went."

  "You sure didn't do such a great job." Shannon stomped past the glass and metal coffee table. "You act like I'm some ninety-seven- pound weakling. Then you drag home a couple of overgrown Boy Scouts to hold my hand."

  "Well, Shannon, if you don't think you need us ... " Joe began.

  "He needs you, he needs you." Berman wrung his hands. "I want professional help. I don't want this guy's life in danger.'

  "Larry, you forget that I grew up in the toughest part of Detroit." The actor slammed his hand on the mantelpiece. "I have street smarts. At least I did till you people started treating me like some kind of wimp who can't fight his own battles."

  "I thought you grew up in Grosse Pointe," Joe suddenly said. "That's not exactly the toughest Detroit neighborhood. It's where the car-company millionaires and their rich kids live."

  Shannon stopped pacing and scowled at Joe. "Okay, maybe my parents were pretty well off," he admitted. "But I learned from the tough kids I hung out with how to handle myself. If you care to test that, just let me know."

  "Instead of everybody trying to prove who's toughest," Frank said calmly, "why don't you tell us what's been going on? At least then we could give you some advice."

  The young actor glanced at him. "Which one are you - Tom or Jerry?"

  "Frank Hardy."

  Joe shot to his feet with a disgusted glare at Shannon. "C'mon, Frank, let's hit the road. This guy doesn't want us around."

  "This is a job we told Dad we'd tackle," his brother reminded him. "We made a promise to protect him, not to become his best friend."

  "But everybody likes Jed," insisted Berman. "Didn't you see the latest poll in Fanteen, where they voted him the - "

  "I don't need protecting - or anybody to wipe my nose." Jed scowled at his agent.

  "Jed, cool it," advised Berman.

  "Just tell us what's been happening," suggested Frank. "Joe, sit down someplace."

  "I'd rather be sitting down in a pizzeria on the other side of London." Joe stalked over to a large black armchair and sat down.

  Shannon said to Frank, "Obviously, you're the rational one on the team."

  Frank lowered himself into a white canvas chair. "Can you at least outline the problem?" he asked, glancing from the actor to the agent. "Then we can figure out what has to be done."

  Berman glanced uneasily over at his angry client and asked, "You want me to tell them, kid?"

  The younger actor shook his head. He walked over to stare into the empty stone fireplace. "I'm fairly sure this is just some crank thing," he began. "You two guys may not think much of me as an actor, but in the past year or so I've become what you'd call a celebrity. That means a lot of media hype. Interviews on the talk shows, photo sessions for the magazines ... "

  "Celeb magazine just voted him one of the Ten Hottest Hunks in Hollywood," the agent cut in.

  "I'll tell the story, Larry."

  "Detectives need these little background details," Berman said.

  Shannon sighed. "Stars get a lot of attention. Unfortunately, some of it comes from people who are borderline crazies. That means some hate mail, a nut phone call now and then, a few threats. Mostly it's harmless. Annoying, sure, but not all that dangerous."

  "That's not always true," said Frank. "There have been cases, you know, where obsessed fans have killed or seriously hurt stars."
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br />   "Is that what's happening here?" Joe asked the agent. "Are we talking about a crazed fan?"

  Shannon answered. "I'm not sure who this person is. We've been in London for five days to promote A Punk at Oxford. You know, dozens of half-witted radio and TV interviews, equally stupid magazine and newspaper stuff, personal appearances. Tomorrow night, for example, I've got a boring speech to make to a bunch of European movie distributors. By the way, Larry, the opening three paragraphs of that speech will have to be changed."

  "Kid, Normie Lenzer himself okayed that speech. We can't change a word without his okay."

  "So get his okay. I'll give you my ideas for a new opening, and you fax them to him in L.A."

  Frank cleared his throat. "What about the threats?"

  Shannon continued. "Three days ago, while I was driving my Jaguar, someone in a car tried to force me off the road and down a rocky hillside. Could have been just a chance thing, but the next day somebody shot at me - three times with a rifle, by the sound of it - while I was out jogging on the Embankment."

  "The phone calls." Berman sounded as though he were coaching the actor in a scene.

  "I've also gotten two nasty phone calls."

  "What sort of caller?" Frank wanted to know.

  "Some whispering voice said I was marked for death unless I got out of London right away."

  "Did they claim responsibility for the shots and the car business?" Joe asked.

  The actor replied, "Yeah, the second call did. Something like, 'We'll keep trying until you get tired and head for home.' "

  "The letter," coached Berman.

  "Right. There was a letter, printed in pencil on cheap notebook paper. It had the same kind of message - that I'd get seriously hurt if I didn't leave town."

  "Can we see the note?" asked Frank.

  "Afraid not." The actor shook his head. "I tore it up and flushed it."

  "I told him that was the kind of stuff the police needed. How else could they catch this nut case?"

  Frank said, "You've seen the police, then?"

  Berman nodded vigorously. "Twice. They did send a couple of detectives, but ... " He shrugged. "I could tell they thought I was trying for some cheap publicity."

  Joe glanced over. "Have you gotten free publicity out of these attacks and threats?"