Street Spies Read online

  At the other end of the room the man with the leg brace had a telephone glued to one ear, and he was beckoning impatiently to one of the messengers. The kid ran up to the desk and the man thrust a piece of paper at him and snapped, "Get going!" As the messenger disappeared out the door, the man stood up and wrote an address beside the messenger's name on the dispatch board.

  "Say, Gus," Slim called out over the noise of the radio, "how about putting Hot Dog's name up?"

  Without a word, Gus wrote "Hot Dog" at the bottom of the list and sat down again. He picked up some personnel forms and thrust them at Joe.

  "I guess you've already met Gus Ireland," Slim said as they walked to the sofa.

  "Yeah," Joe replied. He sat down and started to fill out the forms. "Does he hate the whole world or is it just me?"

  "Oh, Gus isn't so bad," Slim said with a grin. "He used to be one of the best riders on the street. Then a cabbie plowed into him at Broadway and Fulton, and he nearly lost his leg. Now he's stuck behind a desk. I think it's soured him."

  Across the room, the two guys had stopped playing cards and were talking intently in the comer. One of them glanced suspiciously at Joe, and they both stopped talking abruptly. Joe wondered why.

  "That's Apollo and Wipe-Out," Slim said. "They've been in the business longer than the rest of us. There's not an address in the city that they can't find—blindfolded."

  Before Joe could answer, a pretty girl walked in from the street. She was wearing fatigue pants and an oversize jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and her short red hair was brushed back from her large green eyes. Joe caught himself staring at her. "Who's she?" he asked curiously.

  "Name's Gypsy," Slim replied. "She's only been here a couple of months, but she seems to be working out okay. She's weird, though. Keeps to herself, won't talk to anybody. Word has it she's moonlighting with another messenger company. She's already made enough to buy herself a new bike, and she was flashing some big bucks around here the other day."

  Joe made a mental note to find out more about Gypsy. A new bike, big bucks — could she be making that money working for MUX? He picked up the forms he'd just filled out and took them to Gus's desk, where the dispatcher was just putting the phone down.

  He glanced up at Joe. "Okay, Hot Dog," he said, "time to earn your pay. You've got a pickup in the financial district."

  Joe took the work order Gus waved at him and headed for the front door. As he reached it, he turned back toward Slim. "Hey, thanks," he said.

  "Sure thing." Slim shrugged. "Good luck."

  Joe wheeled his bike down the front steps. "On my way to Chase Manhattan Plaza," he said out loud, hoping Frank could still hear him.

  Joe was amazed at how easy it was for somebody on a bike — somebody who was willing to take chances—to cut through New York City traffic.

  At the first intersection, he wanted to dismount and cross with the light, but he could see the cross-street traffic was snarled up so he rode - across it without stopping. When the columns of bumper-to-bumper traffic traveling beside him ground to a stop, he threaded his way between two rows of cars all the way to the next light. He got a jump on the light, turned left on Water Street, and was off at the head of the column, pedaling south.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the Hardys' black van swinging into the lane behind him. Good, he thought to himself. Frank was on his way, so the radio must still be working.

  "Hey, Frank, can you hear me?" he said. "If you can, give me a beep." A second later he was rewarded with the familiar sound of the van's horn honking amid all the other traffic noise. "So far, so good." Joe pedaled harder.

  At the next corner Joe dodged between the lines of stalled traffic, slipping into the intersection as the light turned green. With a burst of energy, he rapidly pulled away from the lumbering buses and delivery trucks, pushing himself to top speed. But the van was stuck behind a bus.

  Joe had driven in New York traffic often, but never on a bike. In the van he never got the feel of the traffic the way he did on the bike — and he didn't have the freedom, either. Joe felt wonderful that he was moving faster than anything around him. It was hard for him to remember that he was on a job, and that there could be real danger involved. This was fun—and he was getting paid for it, too!

  In less time than he thought possible, Joe was locking his bike to a parking meter outside a sixty-five-story, glass-and-steel building. He didn't see a sign of Frank. He grinned, picturing his brother still stuck behind that bus. He rode the express elevator to his pickup on the thirty-eighth floor, where a smiling secretary handed him a brown envelope. Then back down the elevator, into the plaza,' and onto his bike.

  "I'm headed for West Broadway and Chambers," he said out loud for Frank's benefit, and pedaled off again. After he delivered the envelope, he stopped at a pay phone in a drugstore and dialed the number of the mobile phone in the van.

  "Yeah, what is it?" Frank said. Joe could hear the frustration in his voice.

  "It's me," Joe said. "How's the radio working? You picking me up okay?"

  "No, I lost you when I got stuck in traffic. Too many buildings between us. Also, I don't think I'll be able to hear a thing when you go inside."

  "We have two other problems," Joe said. "We need two-way communication. The guy in the car« needs to be able to contact the guy on the bike" And we've got to figure out a way to track other bikes without actually following them."

  "Right," Frank said. "A van can't keep up. with all those bikes, running all over the places, We've got to come up with something. Radar, No, that won't work. It's only line-of-sight. Listen, Joe, maybe Mr. Chilton can come up with something. How about meeting near WWT's offices at noon?"

  "I'll be there," Joe promised, and hung up. Then, with a sense of anticipation, he dialed SpeedWay's number. If he didn't have to meet Frank until noon, he might as well do another job. This messenger stuff was great.

  At noon Joe coasted off Fifteenth Street into Stuyvesant Park, scattering a flock of gray-winged pigeons picking up crumbs from the sidewalk. On one side of the park there were a couple of red brick buildings that gave the small square the look of a New England village green. The benches were filled with people eating their lunches, reading newspapers, or taking naps in the sun.

  In front of the peg-legged bronze statue of Peter Stuyvesant, Joe saw Frank, his army surplus messenger bag at his side. The two of them bought a couple of hot dogs from a vendor and found a bench in the corner of the small park.

  "Did you get the equipment you were after?" Joe asked, wolfing his food.

  Frank nodded. "Chilton sent down some great stuff," he said. He opened his bag and handed Joe a headset with a single earphone. It looked exactly like the portable radios people wore.

  "With this," Frank said, "you can always stay tuned to your favorite station — me. With two-way communication, we can keep in touch better." He reached into his bag again and pulled out a round, palm-size metal container. "We also have a supply of miniaturized transmitters. They're perfect for this job. Each of them has a unique signal."

  "That'll tell us who we're tracking," Joe said as he turned one of the transmitters over in his hand. "But it won't tell us where."

  "That's where Chilton really shines," said Frank, grinning. "We'll be able to receive each bike's signal over a special set in the van that tracks the messengers on a computerized display." Frank's grin got a little wider. "The man promised us state of the art, and ... "

  Joe gave his brother a high-five as he finished the sentence. "And he delivers!" Joe looked closer at the small black sphere. "But how do I attach these things to the bikes? It's not like I can toss them into the backseat."

  "They're magnetized," Frank said. "You can stick them on anything metal."

  Joe nodded knowingly. "Like the metal plate under a bicycle seat."

  "Yeah. With these gadgets, one of us gets his exercise biking all over Manhattan, While the other tunes in on likely suspects
."

  "Great," Joe said, putting the headset on and stuffing half a dozen small transmitters into his bag. "I need to get back to SpeedWay before I'm missed." He flashed Frank a grin. "Stay tuned - fun and games coming up."

  The ride back to SpeedWay was uneventful until the last few blocks. Just south of the Seaport a yellow taxi raced past him, its right front tire splashing through a muddy puddle. A long wave arched directly in front of Joe and he plowed right through it. He was still dripping when he arrived at the office. The chair behind Gus's desk was empty.

  Slim looked up from the corner where he was playing checkers with Wipe-Out. "Hey, Hot Dog! Taking showers on company time?"

  Joe made a face. "Anywhere I can dry off?" Slim pointed to a door beside Gus's desk.

  Washroom's in there."

  Joe ducked inside. As he reached for the paper towels on the wall, he heard Gus's voice through the flimsy plywood wall that partitioned the washroom from the storage room. It sounded as though Gus didn't want to be overheard. Joe pulled off his headset so he could hear better.

  "Look, Lightfoot," he was saying, "World-Wide says the heat's on. There's gonna be an investigation, some private eye asking questions, poking his nose into things. One wrong move and the good times will disappear."

  Lightfoot mumbled something that Joe couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it seemed to make Gus furious. Joe heard Gus's cane whistle through the air and land with a loud clang as it hit something metal.

  "Don't tell me you ain't got a lot to lose," Gus growled angrily. "Don't forget—you're in on this, too. One tiny foul-up and I'll make sure you're the first one in jail!"

  Chapter 3

  Quickly Joe pulled down a couple of paper towels, dried himself, and repositioned his headset. He opened the door and peered out.

  Everything looked normal. Gus was sliding into his chair, and Lightfoot, looking shaken, had joined Slim and Wipe-Out. No one paid any attention as Joe came out of the washroom and went out the door. Still wearing his bag, he squatted beside his bike, inspecting the spokes.

  "I'm getting ready to 'decorate' one of the bikes, Frank," he said out loud, making sure there was nobody around to hear him.

  "Roger," Frank said. His voice was loud and clear in Joe's ear. "Which one?"

  " Lightfoot's. Did you pick up any of that touching little conversation inside?"

  "Negative."

  "It looks like Lightfoot's our guy," Joe said. "And Gus, too." He'd spotted the shiny ten-speed that Lightfoot had used in the race that morning, chained to the steps. Checking in both directions to make sure the coast was clear, he walked over to the bike, pretending to admire it. Taking a transmitter out of his bag and palming it, he reached under the seat as if he were testing it. The transmitter clicked into place against the metal seat plate.

  Just at that moment Lightfoot came barreling out of the office and down the steps. He stopped short when he saw Joe standing by his bike.

  Joe grinned carelessly. "Hey, man, that's a nice pair of wheels you've got there."

  Lightfoot began to unlock his bike. "Keep your hands off this bike, if you know what's good for you." He was obviously in a bad mood. "What're you hanging around it for?"

  "I'll bet you could have beaten me easily this morning," Joe said, trying to shift Lightfoot's attention. "You just let me take the lead so I'd make the turn into that blind alley."

  "You catch on real fast." Lightfoot sneered. He pulled his gloves out of his hip pocket and put them on. Without another word, he swung a long leg over his bike and pedaled off.

  Joe took a deep breath. "That's one," he said, dropping his chin to his chest.

  "Roger," Frank said. "I'm tracking."

  "Keep close watch on him," Joe said. He straightened up and walked back to his bike.

  ***

  Late that afternoon Frank opened the rear doors of the van. Checking in both directions, he lifted his bike out of the back, closed and locked the doors, and pedaled south. A few minutes later he was parking his bike in front of SpeedWay. After having listened to Joe's transmissions most of the day, Frank felt as if he'd been there before.

  The few messengers standing around didn't give Frank a second glance. Gus was behind his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork.

  "Excuse me," Frank said to him, "are you the dispatcher?"

  "Yeah," Gus growled. "What do you want?"

  "My name is Frank Dodd. I heard you're hiring messengers."

  Gus studied Frank's army-surplus sweater, ragged blue jeans and worn tennis shoes. "When was the last time you held a job?" he asked.

  "I'm working my way through school," Frank said. "New York University. I'd like to ride your night shift."

  Gus eyed him suspiciously, then leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Yeah. Well, we're always hiring messengers. They come and they go here." He grinned. "College types mostly go. They're soft—work's - too tough for 'em."

  "Look," Frank said, "I've worked for a delivery service before. I know this city like my mom's kitchen."

  Gus gave him another close look. Then he seemed to make up his mind and became brisk and businesslike. "Night messengers are hard to find, so I'll give you a try. Bruce is the night dispatcher. He comes on in half an hour — you can be his problem. You work until midnight. Then we close. Here. Fill out these forms."

  Frank picked up the personnel forms Gus pushed at him and retreated to a table across the room to fill them in. At least he didn't have to go through the ritual of the race, he thought.

  When Frank finished and looked up, he saw that Gus was no longer watching him. At that moment, a slender guy with light brown hair came in. Even though it was dusk outside, he was still wearing sunglasses. Frank suspected it was Slim. The guy crossed the room, spoke briefly with Gus, then headed for Frank.

  "Hi," Slim said. He held out his hand. "They call me Slim around here."

  Frank nodded and shook Slim's hand. "Frank Dodd."

  "Gus says he's decided to call you Doc," Slim said with a grin. "Says you're working your way through NYU."

  "That's right," Frank said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Actually, I'm getting a degree in business administration. I need to study a small business for a management course I'm taking—but don't tell Gus."

  Slim nodded. "Got you," he said. "That's how we do things around here — we keep our eyes open and our mouths shut." Frank couldn't see Slim's eyes through his dark glasses. He wondered what Slim was trying to tell him.

  There was no time to find out. Half a dozen calls came in in the next ten minutes, and both Frank and Slim were sent out to maneuver their bikes through Manhattan. Before Frank knew it, his shift was over and it was time to meet with Joe and his dad.

  Frank ducked into a small midtown cafe well after dark. In a booth near the rear, he saw his father talking to Joe. Frank walked up to the booth quickly.

  Fenton Hardy spoke to him. "Joe was just filling me in on the interesting conversation he overheard at SpeedWay's this afternoon."

  Joe slid over to make room for Frank. "Gus was chewing Lightfoot out," he explained. "He said somebody at World-Wide had told him there was an investigation going on. Too bad he didn't say who his source was. We'd have this case all wrapped up."

  "Still, it looks like you've identified two key suspects," Mr. Hardy said. He sipped his coffee. "It stands to reason that the dispatcher has to be involved. A messenger doesn't get to choose his pickups and deliveries."

  "Right," Frank agreed. "But identifying Gus and Lightfoot doesn't buy us much. We've got to figure out how they operate. And we need to know who their contact is, and whether there are other messengers involved."

  Mr. Hardy nodded. "If there are more messengers involved, our chances of identifying the contact will be increased. One of them is bound to get sloppy."

  "I've been wondering about that kid Slim," Frank said. "He seems to be on very good terms with Gus. And he's a little too friendly with new messengers."

  "There's a girl named Gyps
y, too," Joe added. "She's only been there two months, but she's already made enough for a new bike. According to Slim, she was flashing big money around. And she keeps to herself. That would make sense, if she were sent to do the job by the contact at World-Wide."

  "Yeah, but that's Slim talking," Frank reminded Joe. "If Slim is involved, and he suspects you, he could be trying to throw you off the track."

  "Why would he suspect me?" Joe asked.

  "It sounds like SpeedWay is a close-knit organization," Mr. Hardy said. "They may suspect anybody new. Besides, they're on their guard because they've been warned."

  "Well, then," Joe replied, "it's a good thing there are two of us. They probably won't be looking for two undercover investigators."

  "You probably should bug Slim's and Gypsy's bikes," Mr. Hardy said. "But it sounds like you two have made real headway today."

  Frank looked up as the waitress arrived with three of the largest Reuben sandwiches he had ever seen. "Real headway?" he said, making a face. "Joe did, maybe. I spent most of my day stuck behind a bus."

  Joe reported for work the next morning in a gray drizzle. When Slim arrived, Joe made a mental note of which bike he rode and then headed inside to check in.

  Later in the day, Gus was scowling into the phone. "The regular messenger ain't back yet," he was saying. "Okay, okay, I understand." He listened a minute, then looked up and caught Joe's eye. "I gotcha," he snapped into the phone. He slammed down the receiver and waved at Joe. "Here's one for you, Hot Dog. Package pickup at Lexington and Fiftieth. The mailroom's in the basement. Hit it!"

  Joe raised his eyebrows as he swung around and started toward the door. Lexington and Fiftieth? That was close to where ... He glanced down at the address on the work order Gus had handed him and almost froze in midstride. The name Gus had written down was World-Wide Technologies!

  Twenty minutes later Joe was locking his bike in front of the Hawthorne Building, across Lexington from the imposing Waldorf-Astoria hotel. On the way he had tried to raise Frank on his transmitter, but there'd been no answer. He tried once more, without success, then shouldered through the double doors, heading for the elevators at the back of the lobby. He pulled his headset off and pressed the B button.