High-Speed Showdown

  Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1: Boats Ahoy!

  Chapter 2: Threats and Menaces

  Chapter 3: Just the Fax, Ma’am

  Chapter 4: The Tension Mounts

  Chapter 5: Suspicious Shrimp

  Chapter 6: Dennis Menaced

  Chapter 7: On the Rocks

  Chapter 8: Collision Course

  Chapter 9: Racing the Clock

  Chapter 10: Connie Stonewalls

  Chapter 11: Barry Breaks Down

  Chapter 12: Throttle Down!

  Chapter 13: A Booming Case

  Chapter 14: Newcastle Checkmate

  Chapter 15: And They’re Off!

  1 Boats Ahoy!

  * * *

  Seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy turned into the driveway of the Hardy house and stopped the van a few feet from the garage door. After shutting off the engine, he climbed out, stretched to his full height of six feet, and brushed back a lock of blond hair from his eyes. Then he turned around and reached inside for the shopping bag on the passenger seat.

  Suddenly something poked him in the back, just above the right kidney, and Joe stiffened. A voice growled, “Don’t move!”

  Instantly Joe flung himself backward and spun to the left. His left forearm swept upward, knocking his attacker’s arm away from him. Then he made a grab with his right hand, trapping his attacker’s wrist. He was about to jerk the arm down across his thigh when he recognized his brother, Frank.

  “Okay, okay!” Frank said with a grin. “If that’s the way you feel about it, go ahead and move! But don’t go far. We’ve got a date down at the Bayport Marina.”

  “Now?” Joe protested. “Aw, c’mon—I just bought a new set of wheels for my in-line skates. I was planning to mount them this morning, then try them out.”

  Frank shook his head. “It’ll have to wait. Dad just called from San Diego. There’s a case he wants us to look into for him.”

  Fenton Hardy, Joe and Frank’s father, was a former New York City cop who now had a nationwide reputation as a private investigator.

  Joe was just about to ask what kind of case it was when Frank continued. “Didn’t you say something the other day about wanting to go to the powerboat races this weekend?”

  “Sure,” Joe said, nodding. “It’s the Northeast Nationals. Some of the fastest, most powerful offshore racing boats in the world are coming to Bayport.”

  “Then let’s go. It looks like you’re going to get your wish,” Frank told him. “Dad had a call from a guy named Gerald Magnusson. He’s a big real estate operator in Cleveland who’s in charge of this year’s race. He wanted Dad to help him.”

  Joe got behind the wheel, while Frank circled the van and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “I get it,” Joe said, restarting the engine. “Dad told him he’s busy. But he just happened to know of two brilliant young detectives in Bayport who just happen to be available. Right?”

  “Something like that,” Frank agreed. “Anyway, right after I got off the phone with Dad, Magnusson called. Apparently, somebody’s out to sabotage the races. He asked us to come over right away. He sounded pretty worried. He’s at race headquarters, at the Waterside Inn.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Joe demanded. He backed out of the driveway and started across Bayport, in the direction of the harbor. As he turned onto Shore Road, he glanced over at Frank and asked, “Did this guy Magnusson tell you who he thinks is behind the sabotage?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope. He said he’d give us the details when he sees us. I got the feeling—”

  “Hey, will you look at that!” Joe exclaimed, interrupting him.

  A big eighteen-wheeler had just turned onto the street ahead of them. Strapped to its flatbed trailer was a sleek V-hulled powerboat. The words Blue Flame were painted on the side in curvy metallic silver letters.

  Frank whistled. “Will you look at the size of that baby . . . it must be forty feet long! Next to that, the Sleuth would look like a bathtub toy.” Sleuth was the Hardys’ outboard runabout.

  Joe grinned. “Yeah, but at least we have room to take a few friends out on the water. You take that monster . . . I bet it seats four people, max. All the rest of it is full of machinery—two or even three big supercharged V-8 engines.”

  “How fast will a boat like that go?” Frank asked, curious.

  Joe shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “A hundred miles an hour, at least. Maybe a lot more, in calm water. Hey, what—”

  The truck had just crossed Wright Street and started down the slope that led to the harbor. Its brake lights flashed brightly, but it looked to Joe as if the big vehicle was picking up speed instead of slowing down. Suddenly the blare of its horn split the air. The trailer and its high-tech cargo started to sway from side to side.

  “The driver’s losing control,” Frank said. He leaned forward and gripped the edge of the dashboard. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Joe was concentrating on keeping a margin of safety between the van and the runaway truck. He shook his head and said, “I don’t see how. If he’s lost his brakes, I just hope he’s a good swimmer. There’s nothing big enough to stop him between here and the harbor.”

  After a moment Joe added, “No, I think it’s okay. He’s slowing down. Whatever the problem was, it looks like it’s under control.”

  “Just in time, too,” Frank pointed out as the eighteen-wheeler came to a stop at the corner of Shore Road and Water Street. “Pull over, Joe. I’d like to do a little nosing around. This may sound crazy, but if somebody’s playing dirty tricks on the racers, maybe we just saw one of them.”

  Joe pulled into the nearest vacant spot. As he set the parking brake, he asked, “Do you really think there’s something suspicious about what just happened?”

  “Not necessarily,” Frank replied, pushing his door open. “Trucks do lose control on hills. But I wouldn’t mind knowing more about why it happened this time.”

  Across the street, the driver of the truck had climbed down from the cab and was stooping over to check the hoses that connected the brake systems of the tractor and trailer. Joe watched Frank go over to him and start talking. The driver straightened up, pointed at the hill, then waved one hand in a gesture that said, “Who knows!” Then he turned his back on Frank and walked away. The conversation was over.

  Joe got out and locked the van. Frank waited for a gap in the traffic, then sprinted across to join him.

  “Nothing wrong with the truck,” Frank reported. “The guy just isn’t much of a driver. Pretty lucky, though. He could have easily ended up in the drink.”

  “Him, and a quarter million dollars’ worth of racing boat,” Joe added. “And the way it’s strapped to the trailer, I doubt if it would float.”

  As he and Frank started up Water Street, Joe noticed that the Bayport Marina parking lot had been turned into a sort of fairgrounds. The tents and trailers of exhibitors were lined up in long rows. Mingled aromas of hot dogs, Italian sausages, and shish kebab wafted across the street, making Joe’s stomach growl. Would their meeting with Magnusson leave enough time for a prelunch snack?

  The Waterside Inn had been an important town landmark since the days when Bayport’s fleet of whaling ships prowled the world’s oceans in search of prey. The central section of the inn was white with green shutters and had a wide covered veranda across the front. It still looked a lot like the old photos that were on display in the Bayport Library. But in recent years it had sprouted two wings that looked more like a budget motel than a quaint seaside inn.

  The sidewalk was crowded. As Joe and Frank neared the stairs that led up to the inn, a girl of about sixteen caught Joe’s eye and took a step forw
ard. She had brown eyes, a freckled nose, and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her T-shirt showed a whale, a dolphin, and a seal, with the words Save the Ocean over them.

  “Hi,” the girl said with a smile. “You guys go to Bayport High, don’t you? I think I’ve seen you around.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard about you. I’m Connie Fernandez,” the girl replied. “I’m a sophomore.”

  Joe recognized her name. “You were part of that environmental slate for student government, weren’t you? How’d you do?”

  “I won,” she said simply. “It’s a great start, but there’s still lots of work to be done. Listen—are you fellows here for the boat races? Because if you are, I’d like you to take a look at this.”

  She dug into a big manila envelope that said Earthquest on it and took out a leaflet. As she handed it to Frank, Joe could read the words across the top: The Ocean Is a Home, NOT a Racetrack!

  Connie reached over and grabbed Joe’s arm. “How do you think you’d feel if a bunch of people came roaring through your house at ninety miles an hour, stinking it up with exhaust fumes and scaring you half to death?” she demanded.

  “Pretty mad,” Joe admitted dryly. “But I’m not a fish.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Joe,” Connie told him. “Some marine mammals are every bit as smart and sensitive as we are. Don’t they have a right to be left alone? And that’s not all. Do you have any idea what humongous gas guzzlers these racing boats are, and how much exhaust and pollution they pour into the ocean? It’s a crime to waste our natural resources on something so stupid and pointless.”

  Joe scratched his head. He thought it was neat the way Connie stood up for her ideas, and he was for saving the whales as much as anybody. On the other hand, he was really looking forward to watching the big boats in action. Whether Connie liked it or not, speed and power were exciting.

  Frank said, “Connie, I’d really like to hear more of what you’ve got to say, but we’re late for an appointment. Will you be around this afternoon?”

  “Sure, if my supply of leaflets holds out,” she replied. “I just got these from the printer yesterday, but they’re going fast. If they don’t last, I’ll have to go run off some more. It’s important to make people think about what they’re doing.”

  “Catch you later,” Joe said over his shoulder as he and Frank started up the steps to the inn. He noticed Frank carefully fold Connie’s leaflet and put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

  The management of the inn had set tables and chairs out on the front porch. Every place was taken. Those who hadn’t managed to grab a seat milled around, going from table to table, pausing to say hello to acquaintances. A number of people were wearing bright red, white, and blue jackets with Offshore Racing embroidered in fancy script letters on the back.

  As Joe and Frank were crossing the porch, one of the jacket wearers took a step backward and stumbled into Joe. He was about seventeen, with blond hair and the deep tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I should watch where I’m going.”

  “No problem,” Joe said. He noticed the name on the guy’s badge—Dave Hayman—and added, “Hey, I recognize your name. Didn’t you win a couple of big junior titles last year?”

  Dave’s face lit with pleasure. “My brother and I did, yeah. I don’t know you, do I? Are you racing this weekend?”

  “Nope, just a fan,” Joe replied. He introduced himself and Frank, then asked, “What’s the name of your boat? We’ll root for you.”

  Dave made a face. “Unfortunately, I’m going to be in the rooting section, too,” he said. “The man who sponsored us—his company is having a bad year, and that makes it a terrible year for us. No sponsor, no boat. No boat, no racing.”

  “That’s really rough,” Frank said.

  “Yeah.” Dave signed. “It won’t be easy, just standing on the shore and watching, when I could be out there at the controls of a boat,” he admitted. “Still, it’s better—”

  Behind him, the wide front door of the inn flew open and crashed against the wall. Two men came storming out onto the porch. The first was about forty-five, of medium height, with dark hair, powerful shoulders, and a scowling face. The other man was taller and younger, about thirty, with long brown hair, a square jaw, and the build of a gymnast. He was wearing a heavy gold chain with what looked like a carved ivory medallion hanging from it. Joe thought he looked familiar but couldn’t place him.

  “Hold it, Newcastle,” the younger man called. He grabbed the other man’s shoulder and tried to spin him around. “I haven’t finished saying what I’ve got to say to you.”

  Newcastle turned and brushed the hand from his shoulder, growling, “Too bad, because I’ve finished listening, Batten. I’m sick of you and that cute plastic necklace of yours.”

  He reached out, as if to flick the ivory medallion with his forefinger. Batten took a step back, then cocked his fist to throw a punch. The people sitting at tables nearby scrambled for safety, and several chairs were knocked over.

  Joe decided that the two men had to be stopped before someone got hurt. He caught Frank’s eye and gestured with his head toward Newcastle.

  Then, as Frank moved toward the older man, Joe stepped in front of Batten.

  “Hey, pal,” he said in a soothing voice. “Let’s all take it easy, okay?”

  Batten’s face contorted. “Sure, pal!” he said through clenched teeth. As he aimed a fast blow at Joe’s midsection, he added, “Try taking this easy!”

  2 Threats and Menaces

  * * *

  The instant Joe saw the fist rocketing toward his stomach, his hundreds of hours of training and practice in the martial arts took over. Smoothly, seemingly without thought or effort, he swayed to the left and twisted his body sideways from the hips.

  The movement was just enough to allow Batten’s blow to slip harmlessly past him. As it did, Joe grasped Batten’s wrist in his right hand and put his left hand behind the other man’s elbow. To a spectator, it might have looked as innocent as the grip Joe would have used to help an elderly person across the street. But Batten went spinning across the porch, hit the white wooden railing, and did a back flip over it into the hedge.

  Several onlookers hurried over to help Batten out of the bushes. Joe stayed where he was. He figured that if he tried to help, he would simply rouse Batten’s temper again. He glanced around. Frank was standing with one hand on the shoulder of the man Batten had been arguing with. The man looked at Frank and shrugged, as if to say that the quarrel hadn’t been his fault.

  From the door of the inn, a voice full of authority demanded, “What’s going on out here?” The speaker was a man of about sixty, with thick gray hair and a white mustache. He was wearing white slacks, a blue blazer, a white button-down shirt, and a regimental striped tie. Joe noticed that his white deck shoes were spotless.

  The man next to Frank stepped forward and said, “It’s nothing, Gerald. Barry and I had words, that’s all. Then, when these two kids tried to smooth things over, Barry got physical.” He chuckled and added, “As you can see, it didn’t quite work out the way he expected.”

  “Carl, I’m surprised at Barry and you,” the man replied. “Surprised, and very disappointed. The idea of a national champion and a leading contender for the title scrapping like a couple of fourth-grade schoolyard toughs! And in public, too. Is that the kind of image we want people to have of powerboat racing?”

  “Guess not,” Carl Newcastle said, with a little shrug. He didn’t sound very convinced. “Sorry.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry,” Barry called from the foot of the steps. “I don’t need you to teach me how to act, Gerald. What this sport really needs is more colorful personalities that attract the public, not more fuddy-duddy rules. As for you, Newcastle, I’ll settle with you on the wate
r, on Saturday.”

  Barry turned to go, but not before he gave Joe a dirty look.

  “Congratulations, brother. You really know how to win new friends,” Frank murmured.

  Before Joe could think of a comeback, the man in the blue blazer said, “Am I right in thinking that you two are Fenton Hardy’s boys? I’m Gerald Magnusson.”

  Frank and Joe introduced themselves and shook hands with Magnusson. Then he led them indoors. As they followed him, Joe told Frank, “That turkey who tried to deck me? That must be Barry Batten. He won the national offshore title last year.”

  “Oh, right,” Frank replied. “I remember seeing an interview with him on TV. He said he owed all his victories to his lucky medallion. It’s a piece of whale ivory that was carved by some ancestor of his who was captain of a whaling ship.”

  Magnusson took them to a small room off the lobby that was set up as an office.

  “Thank you for coming by,” he said, after they all sat down. “I apologize for the greeting you just got. I’m afraid everyone’s nerves are on edge.”

  “Why’s that, sir?” Frank asked.

  Magnusson stroked his mustache with one forefinger. “It’s hard to explain,” he said slowly. “In the last two days, since the racers have started arriving in Bayport, there have been several, ah, incidents. Nothing terribly startling, really—equipment breaking down when it shouldn’t, that sort of thing. But the rumor has spread that someone is out to wreck the meet. I wanted your father—and since he’s not available, of course, you—to find out if there’s any truth to the rumor.”

  “I see,” Frank said.

  “I’ve been part of the offshore racing scene for many years,” Magnusson continued. “But this is the first time I’ve had responsibility for a major meet. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  “We understand,” Joe told him. “But what kind of incidents are you talking about?”

  Magnusson frowned. “Well, for one thing . . . tell me what you think of this.”