Dungeons & Detectives Page 3

  People.

  Aside from three kids at one of the game tables, the only person there was a guy with close-cropped hair and huge muttonchop sideburns behind the counter, reading a vintage Black Panther comic book. He had a tattoo of Wonder Woman on one arm, Chewbacca on the other, and a T-shirt with Wolverine arm-wrestling Captain Kirk from the old Star Trek TV series.

  He grinned slyly when he saw us walk in the door and tossed the comic onto the counter.

  “Haven’t seen ya in a while, Franky,” he said in a deep Rhode Island accent, a New England dialect I recognized from other cases. I’m definitely not a linguistics expert, but to me it sounded a little like Boston meets Brooklyn. “Guessing you ain’t here for the new Detective Comics. From what I’m hearing on the grapevine, you’re looking for something a little rarer.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of Sabers and Serpents #1 in stock, would you, Don?” Frank played along. “I had my eye on one at a shop across town, but someone grabbed it before I saved up enough allowance.”

  “Funny thing, I just got one in today. Hundred and five K, and it’s yours,” Dave Inkpen said deadpan, then burst out laughing. “You don’t really think I broke into that loudmouth’s store, do you? Not that I wouldn’t shake the hand of whoever did. If you catch ’em, let ’em know they’ve got ten percent off their next purchase at the Ink Pen.”

  “That’s real generous of you,” I said, looking around the nearly empty shop. Of the three “customers” gaming in the back, I recognized one of them as Inkpen’s son Doug. “Doesn’t take superpowers to tell your business is down, or that you’ve got a bone or two to pick with Robert. Some folks might call that a motive.”

  Inkpen glared in my direction. “Between him and me, if anyone’s a thief, it’s McGalliard. I’ve had the corner on Bayport’s comic market for near on twenty years, and that oaf thinks he can sail right into my town and steal my business for himself just because he’s lucky enough to be related to Old Man McG.” He slammed his fist on the counter, causing a Squirrel Girl bobblehead to topple over. “Heck, if I knew how to pull a heist like that and thought I could get away with it, I mighta even thought about it. But what am I gonna do with a hot comic that rare? There are only three in existence. Someone slipped it under my shop door, I couldn’t even sell it if I wanted to. The only thing that rag could buy me is a trip behind bars, and I don’t plan on spending my golden years behind nothin’ but this here counter.”

  “What about the black market?” Frank asked. “I’m sure someone as savvy as you could find a buyer if they really wanted.”

  He snickered. “You think that highly of me? It’s flattering, but you been reading too many comic books, kid. You think I got the names of rich foreign princes in my Rolodex who I can move that thing to? If I had those kinds of friends, I wouldn’t be struggling to pay the Ink Pen’s rent. A guy would have to have some serious Bruce Wayne/James Bond−type top secret connections to pull off that kind of deal. That comic shows up anywhere outside of the dark web, the Batcave, or some evil mastermind’s lair, and everyone and their grandma gonna know exactly where it came from.”

  It was obvious Don Inkpen had it in for Robert, but he also made a lot of sense. Why would someone steal a comic they couldn’t possibly get away with selling?

  Inkpen scratched his left muttonchop pensively. “Come to think of it, I know of one fella might profit from that comic being stolen.”

  Two sets of Hardy boy ears instantly perked up.

  “And he’s big, bald, and Scottish.”

  Two sets of Hardy eyes fixed Don Inkpen with a dubious glare. Sure, Robert had been acting sketchy, and it was clear his relationship with the truth was a bit shaky, but…

  “What motive could Robert possibly have for stealing his own prized comic?” Frank asked skeptically.

  “If that thing’s in the condition McGalliard says it is, it’s gotta be insured for a fortune,” said Inkpen. “And if it gets stolen, the insurance company ain’t gonna take no twenty-five percent commission off the top like the auction house would neither. A fella who maybe ain’t as well off as he says he is could make out pretty on a loss like that.”

  5 GOING, GOING, GONE

  FRANK

  JOE AND I STOOD ACROSS the street a few minutes later, staring back at the shop as two of the three kids who’d been playing tabletop games in the back filed out, leaving Don Inkpen and his son Doug alone in their now empty Ink Pen. Doug was a couple of years older and used to LARP and play RPGs with us, but he’d stayed loyal to his dad’s shop. He’d been in some of the pics from the big LARP camping trip out in Bayport Heights, so I guessed he stayed in touch with some of the gang. I’d barely seen him in person, though, since Comic Kingdom opened. Doug was a nice guy, and I felt bad about him being left out, but he wasn’t the Inkpen I was concerned with. It was what his dad said that had my brain churning with questions.

  Could the Ink Pen’s grumpy owner be right about his boisterous crosstown rival? Was it possible that Robert had staged the theft himself to collect the insurance money?

  “Robert did lie about his security system,” Joe said, reading my thoughts. “Maybe he’s just cheap and didn’t want to spend the money. Or maybe—”

  “Inkpen is right and he doesn’t have the money,” I finished Joe’s thought.

  “If he knew the cameras weren’t on, it means he also knew there wouldn’t be any footage to implicate him. As the shop’s owner, Robert had the means and opportunity to take the comic if he’d wanted,” Joe said, referencing two of the three basic defining characteristics of a viable criminal suspect—the ability to commit the crime and the chance to pull it off. That still left the third and most important factor.

  “I’m not sold on the motive, though,” I said. “And I think you were right about Inkpen having a motive himself. He doesn’t hide his feelings about Robert.”

  “Motive, definitely, but means and opportunity are questionable,” Joe pointed out. “Even if he could pull it off, he’s right that it doesn’t make sense to steal something you can’t easily profit from.”

  “Unless his primary objective was to hurt Robert’s business and reclaim some of his customers,” I countered. “There’s more than one way to profit from the theft.”

  “Trying to shift the suspicion back onto Robert would be a clever way to help cover his tracks, too,” Joe observed.

  “So why would Robert make his own comic disappear right before he was planning to have it appraised in front of everyone?” I pondered.

  “Especially if there was the chance that it could sell at auction for as much as Murph seems to think,” Joe agreed.

  “Auctions are risky, though,” I said, playing devil’s advocate. “You have no control over who bids, and there’s always the chance it could sell for less. I know Murph’s taken losses on some of the collectibles he’s put up for auction online.”

  “Yeah, but swiping your own prized attraction right after announcing its unveiling to the whole world is a pretty wacky party promotion tactic,” Joe said. “It makes him look like a chump in front of the entire world, and for someone as fond of bragging as Sir Robert, that’s gotta sting.”

  My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and saw the words Butterby Auctioneers flash across the screen.

  “Frank Hardy here,” I said, putting the phone on speaker so Joe could listen in.

  “Yes, this is Wendell Leadbetter of Butterby’s returning your call,” answered a man with an upper-crust British accent. “You mentioned something about a copy of Sabers and Serpents #1?”

  “Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Mr. Leadbetter. I’m a private investigator helping out Robert McGalliard. I’m not sure if you’ve heard the news yet, but I need to discuss your upcoming trip to Bayport on Halloween to appraise his comic.”

  “My trip to Bayport? I’m not sure I follow. Are you offering to sell a copy of Sabers and Serpents for the McGalliard family? I’d certainly be interested if so, but I’m i
n Japan appraising Edo period artwork for the next week and half. I’m afraid I can’t make it back to the States for an appraisal until early next month.”

  I exchanged a confused look with Joe. “I’m sorry, Mr. Leadbetter, I think maybe I’m the one who doesn’t follow. I thought you’d already made plans with Robert to appraise the comic this Friday.”

  He gave an amused chuckle. “I’m quite sure I would have remembered that. It’s not every day I get to examine a comic as rare as that one.”

  “You never contacted Angus McGalliard’s nephew, Robert?” I asked, although I already had a good idea about his answer.

  “I’m afraid it appears someone has played a practical joke on both of us, Mr. Hardy,” he replied.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later we were back on the other side of town, marching toward Comic Kingdom’s front door. But Robert wasn’t on duty, just Xephyr.

  “Sir Rob’s rather discombobulated by the whole bloody ordeal,” she told us, using the made-up accent of her Sabers & Serpents character. Xephyr might be the most into role-playing; she liked to pretend to be one of her characters, even when we weren’t playing. “He took the rest of the afternoon off after the authorities departed. He said not to disturb him unless the stolen item reappeared or aliens invaded. He’s gotta come in tomorrow, though, because we’ve got school,” she said, switching back to her normal voice. “I want to help the poor guy out, but it’s not like I can skip class. Besides, I don’t want to miss fencing practice.”

  I tried calling his phone anyway, but it went straight to voice mail.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to come back tomorrow as soon as school lets out,” I told Joe.

  * * *

  Either Robert was lying, or—

  “I—You—He—It—How—What?” Robert uttered, stumbling over his words along with his feet as he collapsed back into his chair when we confronted him after school the next day. “You mean I’ve been conned?”

  “Or you’re the one doing the conning,” Joe retorted. “We haven’t made up our minds which yet.”

  Robert buried his face in his hands, massaging his cheeks and his forehead like they were a mound of stubborn clay. He’d shooed the rest of his customers out of the shop and flipped over the CLOSED sign as soon as he’d seen the looks on our faces when we walked in the door, so we were alone in the shop.

  “You’re saying Wendell Leadbetter isn’t really Wendell Leadbetter?” he whimpered.

  “Oh, Wendell Leadbetter is Wendell Leadbetter, all right, but whoever you say called you about that appraisal isn’t him,” said Joe.

  “But I spoke to him myself on the telephone,” he moaned. “Surely there’s some mistake. He even sent me a contract for the appraisal!”

  “Can we see it?” I asked.

  “It’s back at the castle with the rest of my paperwork,” Robert said, looking even more distressed than when he’d discovered the comic missing. “But it’s got ‘Butterby Auctioneers of London’ right there on the top in fancy gold-foil print, and Wendell Leadbetter’s signature on the bottom, notarized with an official stamp! There’s even a British stamp on the envelope! It must be real! It must!”

  “Easy enough to forge if someone knows what they’re doing,” I informed him. “Did you verify his identity when he called you?”

  “I… I looked him up on the Internet. Does that count?” Robert asked hopefully. “His name was right there on Butterby’s website!”

  “Anyone could have done the same thing and used his name,” Joe said. “Did he give you a phone number?”

  Robert pulled a folded piece of paper from his wallet and laid it on the counter with shaking hands.

  “It’s a London exchange, but it has a different area code from Butterby’s,” I observed.

  “He said it was his cell phone,” Robert croaked.

  Joe dialed. We could all hear the automated voice that answered.

  “The number you have called is temporarily out of service.”

  “I don’t know whether it’s us or you, but someone has definitely been played,” Joe said.

  Robert just moaned.

  I’d LARPed with the big guy enough to know he was a decent actor, but his distress certainly seemed genuine. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a fish, but no actual words came out until the third or fourth try.

  “There’s… there’s no one coming from Butterby’s to appraise my comic once you find it?” he asked meekly, the reality of the con apparently finally sinking in. We both shook our heads.

  “So, assuming you’re the duped and not the duper, there’s a good chance whoever did the duping could have pinched the comic as well,” I speculated.

  “Sure seems like there’s a link, but I don’t see how the dots connect,” Joe said. “What would the thief gain by pretending to be an auction appraiser and then stealing the comic before the appraisal?”

  “Gain…,” Robert repeated bitterly, muttering to himself as if in a stupor. “Ha! Looks like the joke’s on me. Ha-ha. Didn’t see that one coming.”

  Then he started to giggle. Or cry. It was kind of hard to tell.

  “Um, are you okay, dude?” Joe asked.

  “Fine! Right as rainbows!” Robert declared, standing up abruptly. “Things happen. Life is challenging. But you forge ahead. Keep calm and carry on, as they said in the Second World War. Onward and upward! Now out you go, lads. You’ve done your best. Some cases just can’t be solved.”

  “Wait a second, we still don’t know who took the comic,” Joe said as Robert tried to usher us to the door.

  “No need to worry yourselves anymore with my misfortunes,” he insisted. “The local constables can take it from here, I’m sure.”

  “But I thought you didn’t trust the police,” I tried reminding him.

  “Oh, I don’t know. That Olaf seems like a fine fellow. And he did give me a rather stern talking-to about aiding and abetting the delinquency of minors. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the authorities, now would we?”

  Robert gently pushed us out the door. “And don’t forget the Halloween party! Tell your friends. Tell your neighbors. Still have a business to promote, you know. The show must go on!”

  “Hold on a second…,” I protested.

  Robert didn’t.

  “Toodles!” He pulled the door shut behind us and locked it. The shop lights flicked off a moment later for good measure.

  Joe turned to me as I watched Robert’s lumbering silhouette retreat through the glass.

  “Um, did we just get fired?”

  6 BLAST FROM THE PAST

  JOE

  WELL, THAT WAS MORE THAN a wee bit suspicious,” Frank said as we trudged back toward the car. “He almost seemed more upset about the appraisal being a hoax than having the comic stolen. Without a comic to appraise, what does it matter?”

  “I think the poor guy might be cracking up,” I commented. “Hearing he’d been robbed and conned all in the same day might have pushed him over the edge.”

  “So are we really dropping the case?” Frank asked.

  “It would make Chief Olaf happy, that’s for sure,” I said. “Which is a pretty good reason to keep investigating, if you ask me.”

  What fun was it making the chief’s life easier?

  “And it would let Murph down. He’s emotionally invested in finding that comic too,” Frank asserted.

  “Well, that’s two good reasons to keep going,” I said.

  And keep going we did, though we didn’t make much progress in the few hours left before we had to be home to finish our homework for school the next day.

  * * *

  At school on Tuesday, we interviewed all the kids who hung out at the shop, but no one had any useful info. Everyone just wanted to know what we’d found out so far. We kept the revelation about the auction appraisal hoax to ourselves, though, along with the fact that we’d technically been dismissed from the investigation.

  We w
ere committed to solving the case, whether Robert wanted us to or not. We just didn’t have much to show for our stick-to-itiveness yet. Frank and I rehashed everything for, like, the twentieth time as we walked to the car after school. I’d parked off campus so we could avoid the usual after-school parking-lot traffic jam.

  “So basically, we’re stumped,” I concluded, hopping into the car and starting the engine.

  I looked in the rearview mirror, put it in reverse to back out of the parking space, and—

  POP-POP!

  Frank and I jolted in our seats as both rear tires blew at once.

  “Whoa, what did you just hit?” asked Frank, shaking off the shock of it.

  We hopped out of the car to inspect the damage. What we found were two totally flat tires and a bunch of small metal doodads that looked like rusty old spiked jacks. There was also a note pinned to the left tire by one of the spikes.

  We both looked around to make sure whoever had put those spikes down wasn’t still lurking, but, as far we could tell, the street was empty.

  Frank pulled the note from the tire and read it aloud. “ ‘Back off, or the next thing to get pierced won’t be your tires.’ ”

  My brother and I shared a determined look. Any lingering question about whether we were dropping the case had just been answered. If someone thought they could intimidate Joe and Frank Hardy off an investigation, they didn’t know the Hardy boys.

  Frank leaned down and picked up one of the spikes to examine it. It was made of two small iron tines twisted with four nasty barbs in place of the usual blunt ends. The way it was designed, no matter how it landed, two of the spikes would always be pointing up, primed to pierce anything unlucky enough to either roll over or—I winced at the thought—step on it.