The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 3

  “Frank! Thank goodness!” O’Lunny came rushing over and grabbed Frank’s sleeve. “I just heard that Charles was almost hit by a piece of falling scenery, and that you and Joe saved him from a broken neck.”

  “That’s somewhat exaggerated,” Frank said. “Joe pulled him out of the way, sure. But the flat wasn’t that heavy. If it had hit Battenberg, he might have sprained his wrist or twisted a knee, but I don’t think it could have broken his neck.”

  O’Lunny said, “All right, be modest. I’m grateful just the same. I’d better speak to Bettina, our stage manager. She’s going to have to see to it that everyone in the crew is more careful.”

  “We don’t think it was the crew’s oversight,” Frank told him. “It looks as though somebody deliberately took the weights off the braces and then gave the flat a push.”

  O’Lunny’s eyes widened. “But that’s dangerous,” he said. “It was just luck that nobody was hurt. And next time we might not be so lucky.”

  “Weren’t you expecting something like this?” Frank asked him.

  O’Lunny rubbed his forehead. “Oh, I don’t know what I was expecting,” he said in a tired voice. “Trouble of some sort, yes. But dangerous pranks? I thought we were too much of a family for that sort of thing.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want The Giant Rat to fail?” Frank asked. “Want it badly enough to do something about it?”

  “No,” O’Lunny said promptly. “Look, Frank, the theater isn’t the kind of cutthroat business you seem to think it is. If somebody else has a bigger success than me, I may eat my heart out, but I wouldn’t dream of trying to undermine him or her. Why should I? Anytime a play or musical hits it big on Broadway, it gets more people into the habit of going to the theater. And that means that the next time I put on a play, there’s a bigger potential audience. In the long run, one person’s success is good for all of us.”

  “Then who messed with the tickets, and who pushed over that flat?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know, Frank,” O’Lunny said. “I’m hoping you and Joe can find out. But maybe we’re on a wild goose chase. Maybe those duplicate tickets really were caused by a computer foul-up, and someone was careless with the sandbags.”

  He glanced across the stage and added, “I’d better go. The next act is starting. Good luck, Frank. We’re all counting on you. I’ll come find you after the show.”

  Frank found a spot between two of the side curtains where he could watch both the stage and the area just offstage. The setting for this scene was a sinister back street near the London docks, late at night. In the background, the funnels of a steamship loomed over the roofs of a row of dirty, shabby tenements. Wisps of fog drifted onstage from a machine in the wings.

  “Quiet, please,” the stage manager said as the lights dimmed. “Curtain going up.”

  A tense silence fell. To Frank it felt as if all the people backstage and in the audience were holding their breath.

  As the curtain started to slide open, Frank heard a low voice growl, “This show will never make it to Broadway. I’ll see to that.”

  4 The Sign of the Hanged Man

  * * *

  Frank spun around, then froze in place, his eyes probing the darkness. He felt like a scout on night patrol in enemy territory. Where was the person who had spoken? Who was he talking to? And whoever he was, why was he so determined to wreck the show?

  Frank held his breath and listened intently. But if the speaker or his companion said anything more, it was covered by a burst of applause from the auditorium.

  He heard a noise somewhere nearby. It sounded like a shoe scraping the irregular wooden floor. Moving silently, Frank went toward the sound. After two steps, he bumped into a thick green velvet curtain. The dust on it made him want to sneeze.

  Feeling his way, Frank edged around the curtain. A few feet from him, the dim form of someone was hurrying away. He started to follow.

  Something—a faint sound, a movement of air—alerted him. He started to turn, to face whatever new danger threatened. As he did, he went into a defensive crouch and raised his hands to guard position.

  Too late. He was still in the middle of his turn when something heavy slammed him at the base of his skull, just below and behind the left ear. A gray fog spread across his vision, shot through with flashes of lightning. His eyes rolled upward, and he felt himself slumping to the floor.

  Hang on! Frank ordered himself, as he sprawled out flat. Don’t pass out! He focused on counting silently to twenty-five. By the time he reached twenty-one, he was able to push himself up into a sitting position. At twenty-five, he used the green velvet curtain to pull himself to his feet.

  His left foot bumped into something on the floor. Frank waited while a dizzy spell passed. Then he bent down and felt the object with his fingertips. He knew at once what it was—one of the sandbags. Perfect for hitting somebody over the head without making a noise.

  Frank had a dim memory that, after slugging him, his assailant had gone toward the dressing rooms. He started in that direction. But he hadn’t yet recovered as fully as he thought. After three steps, he felt himself losing his balance. He staggered sideways. His hip bumped into a table. The objects on the table rattled loudly.

  “Hey, you!” a man said in an angry whisper. A hand grabbed Frank’s left arm.

  Frank spun around, freeing his arm, and started to throw a counterpunch. Just in time he realized that the other man wasn’t attacking him.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” the man demanded.

  By now Frank’s eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting. The guy who was talking to him was tall and thin, with a hawklike face. He was a member of the Giant Rat’s gang.

  Frank identified himself and added, “I’m Donald O’Lunny’s assistant.”

  “Oh. Well, you’d better be more careful if you want to stay backstage,” the man said. “Keep quiet and out of the way. We have a play to put on.

  Another Rat came over and murmured, “Come on, Will. We’re on.” The two actors moved quickly toward the stage. Frank thought for a moment. Will? Then he remembered. The man who had just been scolding him had to be Will Robertson, Battenberg’s understudy in the role of Holmes. In other words, a guy who would go from being a member of the chorus to being the star of the show . . . if something happened to Battenberg.

  The scene in the street ended. Frank stared, wide-eyed. In the half darkness, the whole set seemed to change shape and position. After watching for a moment, Frank realized that it was starting to revolve. The floor of the stage was a gigantic turntable.

  Within seconds the street, the buildings, the lampposts, and the carriages all vanished from sight. In their place was the interior of a vast shadowy warehouse. Rickety uneven stairs led to a barely glimpsed upper level. Ropes and cargo nets dangled from rusty iron beams. It looked almost like the set from the opening of the play, but it had been subtly distorted to seem even more sinister.

  The Rats were sitting around a battered table. While the Giant Rat stirred them up with a song about the crimes they were planning, Susanna, off to the side and facing away from them, sang a harmonizing ballad about wanting a quiet life of peace and love. The two merged songs were followed by a roar of clapping and even cheers and whistling from the audience.

  O’Lunny came over and stood next to Frank. “A great moment,” he said quietly. “Li Wei has outdone herself. This is only the second show she’s composed, and she’s got a bright future if this makes it to Broadway and is a hit.”

  Frank glanced over at O’Lunny. He looked not so much proud as moved. Frank had the feeling that O’Lunny barely remembered that the scene and the words to the duet were his work. He was simply appreciating them for what they were and giving Li Wei the credit.

  “I think you’ve got a hit here,” Frank said. “The songs are great, the sets are terrific, the acting is first-rate.”

  “We’ve got a hit—if nothing goes wrong,” O’Lunny retorted. “S
how business is full of ifs. And we’ve got more than our share of them.”

  Frank thought of repeating what he had overheard before he’d been slugged. But what was the point? O’Lunny was already convinced that someone was out to wreck the show. He didn’t need further proof. Especially if hearing it might ruin what ought to be a triumphant night for him.

  “Your brother’s first scene is coming up,” O’Lunny added.

  The turntable revolved again. Now the cast was in Baker Street, outside Holmes’s home. Unlike the East End street scene, this upper-middle-class neighborhood was bright, clean, and cheerful. Most of the windows were decorated with flower boxes filled with geraniums, petunias, and other bright blossoms.

  On the sidewalk, half a dozen “boys,” the Baker Street Irregulars, in ragged but neat outfits, were playing a game of pitch-penny. Hector was the leader. Frank had to look twice to spot Joe under his makeup.

  Holmes appeared center-stage, and the boys clustered around him. Looking stern, Holmes declared, “Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science.” The boys nodded. He went on to say that the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra was vitally important to the kingdom, and that he was counting on them to keep a careful watch on the Giant Rat and his gang. “You must be clever and never let them out of your sight.” The Baker Street Irregulars tossed their caps in the air and shouted, “Hip, hip, hoorah!” Then they sang a chorus with a marching rhythm about being “regular Irregulars.” Joe marched around the stage like a professional.

  For the rest of the play, Frank continued to wander around backstage, watching for anything suspicious. Nothing struck him, though.

  After the grand finale, in which Holmes, Watson, the Baker Street Irregulars, and the cause of Justice triumphed over the evil Giant Rat and his band of cutthroats, the cast took one curtain call after another. When they filed offstage after the last one, their faces were glowing with pride.

  “You were all wonderful,” O’Lunny called to them. “Don’t forget, bubbly in the lobby.”

  “Is that the title of your next hit?” someone called out. O’Lunny laughed.

  Frank spotted Joe in the crowd and went over to him. “Great job,” he said, grinning. “You didn’t trip once.”

  “I’m saving that for tomorrow night,” Joe replied. “How did it go backstage?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Frank quickly told him about being attacked near the green velvet curtain. “I know Will Robertson was close by, but that doesn’t prove he did it.”

  “Maybe the opposite,” Joe said. “If I’d just slugged you, I think I’d try to get away from the scene of the crime as fast as I could. Speaking of getting away, I’d better go change and remove this makeup. Mom and Dad are expecting to see us at the reception.”

  Frank waited for Joe outside the dressing room. The cast members were quick-change artists. Most of them came out of the dressing room long before Joe did. Finally, he came out in his regular clothes, and the two Hardys made their way to the front of the theater.

  The lobby was crowded with actors, crew members, and playgoers. Frank and Joe helped themselves to some potato chips and mineral water with lemon slices. Then they positioned themselves where they could see the entire lobby and looked over the scene.

  Battenberg was standing at the foot of the grand staircase, surrounded by a half circle of admirers. Not far away, Gordean, who played Watson, watched Battenberg with a mocking look on his face. Battenberg saw him and glared. Gilbert Hornby, the producer, hurried over, took Gordean by the arm, and started talking earnestly to him.

  In an undertone, Joe said, “If anything more happens to Battenberg, I know who my main suspect will be.”

  “But Gordean couldn’t have knocked over that flat,” Frank pointed out. “He was right in the middle of his argument with Battenberg when it fell over.”

  “Yeah, but what about his friend Robertson?” Joe replied. “I wouldn’t mind knowing where he was at the time.”

  Laura and Fenton Hardy waved from the other side of the room; Joe and Frank forged through the crowd to join them.

  “You were terrific,” Laura said to Joe, giving him a hug.

  After a round of handshakes and congratulations, Fenton said in a low voice, “Any developments?”

  “A few,” Joe replied. “We’ll fill you in when we get home.”

  “Don’t be too late,” his father said. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow. I’ll want to get to bed at a decent hour.”

  “If either of us can sleep, after the excitement of watching Joe on stage,” Laura said. “I hardly recognized you in your makeup and costume. But you looked very handsome.”

  Joe shrugged and looked at the floor. Frank knew he was trying to hide how pleased he was at the compliment.

  “I’m afraid we should be getting home,” Laura continued. “Your father still has to pack.”

  When their parents left, Frank and Joe separated to mingle with the crowd. After about fifteen minutes, they rejoined each other.

  “This is a waste of time,” Joe declared. “Everyone’s on best behavior. Let’s find O’Lunny. Maybe he can let us into the office. We can take a shot at hacking the computer and finding out what happened with all those tickets.”

  They scanned the crowd, but O’Lunny wasn’t in sight. In fact, practically everyone from the show had gone. The members of the audience were left to chat with each other.

  “Maybe O’Lunny’s backstage,” Frank suggested. He led Joe down the corridor they had taken earlier. It was even gloomier and more deserted than before. Except for a few dim work lights and the lamp on the watchman’s desk, darkness pooled everywhere. In the silence, every distant creak of a rafter or joist sounded as loud as a gunshot.

  They walked out onto the stage and began to circle it, looking for anything unusual. Frank found it a spooky experience. The set seemed to loom over them, to tilt inward, to want to crush them.

  Suddenly Joe stopped and grabbed Frank’s sleeve. “They didn’t have graffiti in Victorian London, did they?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Frank said. “Why?”

  Joe pointed up at the nearest wall.

  Even in the dim light, Frank could make out the spray painting of a stick figure with a Holmes-type deerstalker cap on its head. Frank took a step closer. A hangman’s noose was around the figure’s neck. Under the picture was written the following:

  The Real Rat Will Die!

  5 The Dangling Clue

  * * *

  Frank studied the sketch of the hanged man and the words under it. Then he leaned closer to the wall and sniffed.

  “The spray paint’s fresh,” he said. “I can still smell it.”

  Joe took a sniff of his own and said, “You’re right. So whoever did it is either still around or must have left just a few minutes ago.”

  “I wonder if—” Frank started to say. He broke off as a powerful flashlight beam swept the stage and stopped, focusing on him and Joe.

  “Hey there, you two,” came a gruff voice. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m in the cast,” Joe said quickly.

  “And I’m Mr. O’Lunny’s assistant,” Frank added.

  The flashlight drew closer. Squinting and looking past it, Frank could make out a man with a white mustache and sideburns, wearing a uniform of some kind. He was probably a security guard.

  “Mr. O’Lunny’s assistant?” the man said. “Then how come I’ve never seen either of you before?”

  The beam of light moved a little upward, lighting the drawing on the wall. “So that’s it,” the man said. “Vandalism. Don’t move—I’m going to call the police.”

  Frank said, “Now, wait a minute, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Gonsalves. Tomas Gonsalves,” the man said. “I’m the watchman here.”

  “Mr. Gonsalves,” Frank resumed, “why don’t you ask Donald O’Lunny about us? He’ll tell you that we’re not up to anything.”

  “Or the producer, Mr. Hornby,” Joe added. “
He knows about us.”

  Gonsalves let out an amused snort and said, “They’re both gone for the night. No, I’d better call a friend of mine, Officer Riley. He’ll take care of you.”

  “We know Con Riley,” Frank said, deliberately using the Bayport police officer’s first name. “Go ahead and call him. He’ll vouch for us.”

  The light wavered. Was the watchman suddenly a little less sure of himself?

  Suddenly, from the back of the auditorium, a voice called, “What’s going on up there? Tomas, is that you?”

  “That sounds like O’Lunny,” Joe muttered to Frank.

  “Yes, sir,” Gonsalves called back. “Would you come up here? I need some advice.”

  Moments later O’Lunny joined them onstage. He was wearing his raincoat and carrying a battered briefcase.

  “Do you know these fellows?” Gonsalves asked O’Lunny.

  “This one—Frank—is my new assistant, and the other is his brother. He’s an actor. They’re all right.”

  O’Lunny then switched on the stage work lights. After looking over the stick figure, he shook his head and said, “I’d better get one of the scene painters over here first thing in the morning. We don’t want to upset the cast.”

  Frank turned to Gonsalves, “Do you know if there are any clean plastic bags somewhere?”

  “I keep some in my desk,” the watchman replied. “The small size. I use them to store lost objects that turn up.”

  Frank followed Gonsalves over to the desk next to the stage door. While Gonsalves hunted for the plastic bags, Frank noticed a sign-out sheet on a clipboard lying on the desk. The last two names on the list were Ewan Gordean and Will Robertson. They had left less than half an hour ago.

  Gonsalves noticed Frank’s interest and said, “That’s not complete. Some people left by the front and didn’t sign out. Is one bag enough?”