Too Many Traitors

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 14

  Too Many Traitors

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "COME ON, FRANK, show a little life," Joe Hardy said. "We're landing soon."

  He glanced out the plane window, his blue eyes eager for a glimpse of the Spanish coastline. Joe loved the rush of takeoffs and landings. And, as he stretched, he was glad that the long flight from New York was almost over.

  "Hey, Frank!" Joe repeated. A year older than Joe, Frank Hardy bore little resemblance to his brother: Frank was slim and an inch taller than Joe. Frank's hair was brown, Joe's was blond.

  Finally Joe shook Frank's arm, and Frank opened his eyes. He'd been listening to music on his new Walkman. Now he slipped the headphones off his ears and let them dangle around his neck. "Take it easy, Joe," he said. "That's what we're on vacation for, remember? To relax."

  "You're right," Joe admitted. He was tense because he was expecting trouble. Lately trouble had been coming to them out of seemingly innocent situations. A visit to the mall had thrown Frank and him into an assassination plot. A plane ride had become a hijacking. Even a simple party had turned into a bizarre murder attempt in their last case, The Borgia Dagger.

  Even though they were only seventeen and eighteen Joe and Frank Hardy had fought more crime than most big-city policemen. They just seemed to fall into it—either in their hometown of Bayport or anywhere that they traveled.

  "I'd have more fun if you'd talk to me, Frank. You've barely said two words since you won that Walkman. All the way across the Atlantic, you've just sat there, plugged into — "

  "I like listening to music." Frank held an earphone to one ear so he could listen to Joe with the other. "Besides, this is a prize—just like this trip. And I intend to enjoy all my winnings."

  Joe slouched in his seat and looked over at his brother and smiled about Frank's recent good fortune. Frank had entered a contest while he was ordering some computer supplies by mail. Several weeks later he learned he was the winner of an all-expense-paid trip for two to the sunny Spanish paradise called the Costa del Sol.

  The first prize included the trip, complete with guided tour. But among the other goodies were the Walkman and a supply of tapes to play in it.

  Joe spoke again. "I think you brought me along only because Callie wasn't free."

  "Come on, you know that's not true," Frank said, shrugging off Joe's teasing. He knew Joe finally had a grudging respect for his girlfriend, Callie Shaw. Because even Joe had to admit that it was Callie who'd saved them all during the Borgia Dagger case.

  Frank teased his brother back. "I'd have offered the trip to Mom and Dad if they hadn't gone to Chicago. Lucky for you they took Aunt Gertrude with them."

  "She doesn't like the beach. All that sand is bad for her shoes." He grinned. "Boy, I hope the Spanish beaches live up to their reputation." He closed his eyes and imagined the girls.

  The wheels touched down on the tarmac of the airport runway. Within minutes the plane had taxied to the gate. Soon Frank and Joe were heading down the aisle toward the door.

  "So long, Joe," said a smiling red-haired flight attendant as they stepped through the exit. "Hope I see you on the flight home."

  "Me, too, Cindy," Joe replied. Waving at her, he followed his brother along the exit ramp.

  "When did you two get so friendly?" asked Frank in surprise.

  Joe tugged lightly on the headphones dangling around Frank's neck. "There's a lot you miss when you have these things plastered to your ears." He winked at his brother and set off for the customs line.

  After clearing customs, they walked into the terminal.

  Joe glanced around. "I thought somebody was supposed to meet us."

  Frank grabbed Joe's arm and pointed. "There's our man."

  Ahead of them stood a sandy-haired man of about thirty, his arms and face well tanned. The man wore black slacks and a red-and white-striped shirt, and he held a handwritten sign. The scrawled letters read "Hardy."

  "Here we are," Frank called. The man spotted him and lowered his sign as the brothers approached. "I'm Frank Hardy," Frank said. "This is my brother, Joe."

  "Welcome to Spain," the man said, smiling. "I'm Martin Chase — call me Martin. I'm your guide. For a minute there I wasn't sure I'd find you."

  "But I thought this kind of thing was everyday stuff for you guys," Frank said.

  Martin shrugged, embarrassed. "Not for me. I'm a writer, and Malaga is a nice place to write. I guide English-speaking tourists to keep the roof over my head and feed myself."

  "What do you write?" Joe asked.

  "Journalistic stuff," Martin said. "Which reminds me—you are Fenton Hardy's sons, aren't you?"

  "How'd you know that?" Frank eyed him.

  Martin smiled sheepishly. "You'll have to forgive me. I do a lot of crime writing, and I'm something of an armchair detective. Your father is one of my heroes, a really exceptional investigator. I've read about all of his cases." Martin studied their faces. "You know, you both look a little like him."

  "Well, what do you know?" Frank said. "Dad's reputation grows all the time."

  Martin nodded. "Is that all your luggage?"

  "This is it." Joe picked up one of their two overnight bags. "We like traveling light."

  "Let's go, then," Martin said. He led the way through a crowd of perplexed tourists, world travelers, and relaxed residents. Outside, Martin stopped beside a long black limousine.

  The driver hopped out to open the back door. He wore a dark suit and chauffeur's cap. A thick black beard masked his face, and sunglasses hid his eyes. While the Hardys got into the backseat and Martin climbed in front, the chauffeur loaded the bags into the trunk. Then he climbed behind the wheel again. All this he did without uttering a word.

  "To the hotel," Martin ordered. Soon the big car was weaving through the fast-moving traffic, heading toward downtown Malaga.

  The city amazed Frank. He had expected the old stone buildings, but the park-lined boulevards and the plazas with outdoor cafes and fountains were a surprise to him. It wasn't the quaint little village he had expected, but a beautiful city that mixed the Old World with the new.

  The local bullring, the impressive Plaza de To-ros, came into view. Then it gave way to baroque-style churches whose ornate towers gleamed hot white in the bright sun.

  "Know much about Malaga?" Martin asked, turning in his seat to look at the Hardys.

  "Just what we read in the brochure," Frank began.

  "This place is an old port founded by the Phoenicians some three thousand years ago," their guide said. "There's a lot of history in this old town."

  Joe said, "I was hoping they'd have discos here too."

  Martin laughed. "Don't worry," he assured him. "I suggest you work off your jet lag with a good night's sleep. Then tomorrow we'll start on the real tour—including a couple of the better discos."

  The big black car rolled to a quiet stop in front of an impressive old stone building with a red-tiled roof. They slid out of the car and Martin escorted them into the large, cool lobby of their hotel. They passed sturdy wood and leather chairs, tall urns filled with bright flowering plants, and huge oil paintings of Spanish nobles of centuries past. At the oak front desk, the hotel clerk welcomed the Hardys and handed them registration forms.

  Frank set his tape player on the counter. Before he started filling out the form, he noticed Martin admiring it. "Want to try it?" Frank asked. "I won it as part of the contest. It's the latest model."

  Nodding, Martin slipped on the earphones and switched on the machine. "Thanks." He grinned as the music began to play, and as Frank and Joe registered, Martin paced the lobby, listening.

  "This is great
," Martin said as the Hardys approached him moments later, room keys in hand. He started to hand the player back, then pulled it away just before Frank could touch it. "I don't suppose you'd part with it?"

  "Not a chance," Frank said. He put out his hand and Martin reluctantly handed it back. Frank clipped it to his belt.

  "Our rooms are on the third floor," Joe said.

  "So is mine," their guide replied. "This way." He led them to an elevator and pressed the button next to the wrought-iron gates. "Your tour will work like this — tomorrow we'll check out the city of Malaga itself."

  He nodded excitedly. "You've got to visit the cathedral, Gibralfaro Castle, Picasso's birthplace, the Fine Arts Museum, and, of course, a bullfight and a flamenco club. And, you can't miss eating paella at Pedro's."

  "That sounds like a week's tour, Martin," said Joe.

  "There'll be days to take it easy," Martin assured him. "There's the beach, and some little towns—Torremolinos, Fuengirola, and Marbella—and a stop for fish at La Carihuela, an old fishing village that — "

  The elevator arrived and Martin paused, tugged the door open, and held it as the Hardys carried their luggage in.

  As the door slid shut, Joe heard footsteps running for the door. Without thinking, he pushed it back open.

  Two pretty blond girls got in and smiled at Joe. Then they started whispering together, sneaking peeks at him. Joe couldn't make out what they were saying, except for an odd word here or there. German? Swiss? Swedish? He couldn't decide.

  He smiled back at the girls, about to say something to them, but then Martin started in again.

  "For the rest of the week," the guide said, "there'll be day trips to Granada, Seville, and Ronda, and you don't want to miss the hydrofoil over to Tangier. Then there's — "

  "Hey, I thought this trip was for relaxing," Frank said, smiling. "You're going to run us ragged."

  "Only one way out of this," Joe joked. "Martin, we're going to have to kill you."

  The elevator opened on the third floor, and Martin and the Hardys stepped out. "I'm right over here," Martin said, moving to the room opposite the elevator.

  Joe turned back for a final glimpse of the blond girls. They giggled and waved as the door slid shut. "Nice town," Joe told Martin. "I'm definitely going to like it here."

  "Wait till you get to know it," Martin said. "Tomorrow we'll meet at eight o'clock in the lobby. We'll have breakfast and then we'll begin the tour. I'll leave you on your own about noon. The car and driver are yours to use for the next couple of days. Go anywhere you want."

  "Great," Frank said, glancing at his key. "Which way's three-thirteen?"

  Martin pointed to the left. The Hardys headed for a bend in the hallway. "Remember, eight sharp," he called after them. Then they were gone.

  Martin closed his door and crossed the room to a large window, opening it wide. He stood for a moment, inhaling the sea air. Then he moved back to a small desk. On top of it were a handful of pens and a ream of writing paper in a large wooden box. Martin pulled the paper from the box and set it to one side Hidden in the bottom of the box was a compact shortwave radio. Martin put on the earphone and picked up a small mike. He touched a switch on its side and raised it to his lips.

  "The couriers are now in place," he said into the microphone. "Tomorrow's rendezvous will go as planned."

  "Plans change," said an unfamiliar, accented voice behind him.

  Startled, Martin turned and stared for a second at his attacker. Something hard cracked against his temple. The mike slipped from his fingers. And then he slowly toppled to the floor.

  Chapter 2

  FRANK HARDY LOOKED at his watch and frowned. It was seven past eight the next morning, and he was eager to begin the tour of the city. Instead, he was sitting on a couch in the hotel lobby, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the arm as he watched the stairs, waiting for Martin to appear. Joe sat across the lobby, watching the elevator. But there was no sign of their guide.

  The minutes ticked by. By a quarter past eight Joe walked over to Frank and said, "He's not coming."

  "Why?" Frank asked. "Do you think he missed his wake-up call?"

  "He sure missed mine," said Joe. "I rang his room five minutes ago. No answer. Maybe he went out last night to check some of those discos he talked about. I bet he's dead to the world."

  Frank heard his brother's stomach growl, and the sound made him smile. "Just a minute," he said, and walked over to the hotel desk. After a few words with the man behind the desk, he returned to Joe. "What was that all about?" Joe asked. "Breakfast," Frank replied. "The desk clerk says there's a little cafe around the corner. I left word for Martin to meet us there." "Think he'll mind if we start without him?" Frank glanced again at the empty stairs and then at his watch. Eight twenty-five. "He knows where to find us—and I feel like having more than a hotel breakfast." "Great," Joe said. "Let's go." They stepped outside and walked down the narrow street to the corner. On the other side of the street was their limousine, the driver leaning against it with a newspaper in his hands. Dark glasses still hid his eyes. And from the angle he held the paper, Frank wasn't sure if he was reading or watching the street. Either way, he never moved.

  The Hardys went into the cafe, and soon a waiter brought a tray of sausages, toast, and oranges and set it in front of them.

  "Let's hit the beach this afternoon," Joe said after finishing an orange.

  "Mmmm?" Frank said, his mouth full of toast.

  "When the tour's over. We've got the afternoon free, remember?" Joe held up a hand and studied his skin. "I've got to work on my tan."

  "And the girls," Frank said.

  "And the girls," Joe admitted, laughing as he called the waiter over. He got the bill, dug a handful of Spanish pesetas from his pocket, and dropped them on the table.

  The sun had already made the city hot. It was cooled only by an occasional ocean breeze. The street was busy, clogged with cars in the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk. Despite the antiquity of many of the buildings, Malaga was as modern as any city.

  Which is what Martin would tell us, Frank thought. If he were here.

  As they passed their car, the driver waved at them and then crossed the street. He drew a long white envelope from his pocket and handed it to Frank without a word.

  "It's from Martin," Frank said after tearing the envelope open. He had several sheets of paper with typing on them. The top sheet read: Dear Frank and Joe,

  Sorry I can't be with you this morning. Continue without me. The driver knows where to take you. Good luck.

  Martin

  Under the first sheet were more papers, detailing the tour and the special features and history of the places they were scheduled to see. "Does this mean we can go straight to the beach?" Joe asked.

  "We've got the car for only a couple of days," Frank said, slipping the notes into his shirt pocket. "Plenty of time for the beach later. Let's go see the town while we can."

  "Can we get a new driver?" Joe whispered as they crossed the street. "This one's not my choice for tour guide of the year. He looks like his face will fall off if he smiles."

  "I know what you mean," Frank whispered. The driver opened the back door for them. Frank and Joe slid in. "He doesn't smile, he doesn't talk, and I still haven't gotten a good look at his face," he said so only Joe could hear. The door slammed behind him. "But think of it this way: Who looks a gift horse in the mouth?"

  The driver got in and turned on the ignition. The limousine roared to life, then pulled into the traffic. In seconds the Hardys found themselves swept along through the streets of Malaga.

  As they neared the city's waterfront, traffic thinned out, and the car cruised the Paseo del Parque beside the harbor. "Look," Joe said, pointing at the palm-shaded walkways that lined the marina. "It looks like California." "But there's something you won't see in California," said Frank, reading the tour notes. He pointed - to an ancient limestone church crowned by two towers. "That cathedral dates back to
the sixteenth century."

  To Frank's surprise, the limousine drove right past the cathedral and turned a corner, heading back to the center of town. "Hey!" shouted Frank. "We were supposed to stop there!"

  "No time," said the driver, his voice a harsh whisper. "What do you know?" Joe said. "He talks." "Great." Frank gave the driver a sour look, then studied the notes again as the car traveled the Malaga streets. "Can you see where we are now?"

  Joe craned his neck. "The Plaza de la Merced. Any idea what that is?"

  The limousine screeched to a halt at the curb. "Thirty minutes," the driver muttered.

  "This isn't exactly the tour I had in mind," Joe said as they climbed out of the car.

  Frank pocketed the notes. "According to Martin, the birthplace of Pablo Picasso is right near here. Let's go find it."

  Joe shrugged, and together they crossed to the far side of the plaza. After a short walk they found a small building. Like many other buildings they had seen, this one had old wooden shutters on its windows and small balconies on every floor. A small sign was tacked up next to the door, and among the Spanish words was the name Pablo Picasso.

  "This must be it," Frank said. "You'd think it would be a lot less ordinary looking, wouldn't you?" He squinted at the notice. "I wonder what this says."

  Joe gently nudged his brother aside. "Let an expert translate. I've been waiting to try my high school Spanish."

  "A memorial is to be erected here to commemorate the birth of the great artist Pablo Picasso," said a soft voice behind them. "This will become an official historical site."

  The Hardys turned. And Joe smiled. A pretty young Spanish woman, dressed in a print blouse and denim skirt, was standing and staring at them with large brown eyes.

  "Thank you," Frank said. He held out his hand. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We're Americans."

  The woman's eyes narrowed, and she made no move to shake Frank's hand. "The sky is bluer in Barcelona," she said. "That's very interesting," Frank replied. "The sky is bluer in Barcelona," she repeated, tension sounding in her voice.