Past and Present Danger Read online

  “Right,” Frank replied. “Then we meet back at the house and compare notes at supper. Aunt Gertrude said we wouldn’t be eating until seven-thirty or eight, after the day she’s had.”

  “Hey, guys,” Tony said as he ran up to the van. “I’ve only got an hour before I have to be at work for the supper crowd, so let’s do this.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. He and Frank told Tony what they were looking for, and why.

  “So you want me to drive you around looking for this van?” Tony asked when they were finished.

  “Yeah,” Joe replied. “We figured you know most of the garages and car repair shops around here. If these guys rented the van or had it serviced, or—”

  “Or buy their gas at the same place,” Tony interrupted. “Someone might know where they’re staying.”

  “Exactly,” Frank said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to check back with Darryl at the newspaper office—I hope he’ll still be there—then head over to Phil Cohen’s.”

  “Okay,” Tony said cheerfully. “Let’s do it.”

  Ten minutes later, as the sun began to set, Frank drove away from the Pritos’ house in one direction, while Joe and Tony headed off in the other.

  When they reached the street where the men had first attacked Clayton Silvers, Joe suggested they drive in an ever-widening spiral, checking every gas station and garage they could find. For a half-hour they talked to station attendants and cashiers, giving a description of the van and the men. After questioning a dozen people, they had nothing to show for it.

  “Well, this is a bust,” Joe grumbled as they pulled over by a phone booth.

  “Except for that one guy at the last station,” Tony reminded him.

  Joe shrugged. “Yeah, but it turns out the van he saw belongs to that new cable TV company, Stellar Dish.”

  “The van was the same make and model,” Tony insisted. “Maybe the thieves are using that company as their cover.”

  “Frank and I saw one of Stellar Dish’s vans earlier today,” Joe explained. “The company name is painted on the sides, clear as day.”

  “They could be using a truck they haven’t labeled yet.”

  Joe didn’t respond. He knew Tony could be right. The thieves could be using the company as cover. But it seemed stupid. Why use a van that could be spotted so easily and traced back to your base of operations? For that matter, why draw attention to yourself by trying to kidnap, then rub out someone in broad daylight? Surely the thieves knew that would bring the police into the picture, and possibly alert everyone to their operations, Joe told himself. Then he thought, Clayton had insisted on keeping the police out of it. Was that to make it easier for him to find the bad guys, or was he covering up something else? Whatever the answer, Joe told himself, Aunt Gertrude was in the middle of it, and he had to make sure she was safe.

  “I said, I have to get to work soon.” Tony’s voice cut into Joe’s thoughts. “You want me to drop you somewhere?”

  “I’m sorry, Tony,” Joe said. “I was thinking.” Joe glanced out the front window and spotted the Bayport Plaza Hotel across the street. “You can let me out here,” he said. “I’ll call home to see how things are, then I might look around some more.”

  “Okay,” Tony said as Joe climbed down from the pickup truck. “Maybe I can help you out again tomorrow. Give me a call.”

  Joe promised he would, then waved as Tony drove away. He moved to a phone booth and dialed his home number, all the time staring at the hotel.

  Aunt Gertrude picked up the receiver on the first ring.

  “Hey there,” Joe said. “I just wanted to know how things are going.”

  “Not very well,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “I’ve called around town, to the community center, and to a friend of mine who sells real estate locally. Nothing yet.”

  “I haven’t had any luck either,” Joe admitted. “Have you heard from Frank?” he asked.

  “No,” his aunt replied. “But Clayton said his, uh … stoolie believes something is going down, in the next day or two. There are rumors floating through the underworld.”

  Joe chuckled silently. Hearing his aunt trying to use the lingo was pretty amusing, despite the seriousness of the situation.

  “I want to call your father about all of this,” Aunt Gertrude said. “But he’s very busy with his latest case.”

  As Joe listened to his aunt, he stared up at the hotel building. He knew Clayton Silvers’s room overlooked the main street, and he spotted his windows on the fifth floor. The shades were drawn, and the room appeared to be dark.

  “You really trust Mr. Silvers, don’t you?” Joe asked.

  “Yes,” his aunt replied. “Although I do believe there is something he’s not telling me about all of this.”

  “Like what?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” his aunt replied. “But I’m trying to get it out of him now.”

  Just then the lights went on in Clayton’s room.

  “You’re talking to him on the phone?” Joe asked. “Is he on the other line?”

  “No,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “Clayton is here at the house.”

  Joe froze. If Clayton Silvers was with his aunt, who had just turned on the lights in his room? “Aunt Gertrude, I have to go. If Frank calls in, tell him to meet me at … uh …” Joe glanced around quickly. He didn’t want his aunt asking a lot of questions or worrying. He spotted a bookstore down the block and gave her its name and address.

  “All right,” his aunt replied over the phone.

  “Good,” Joe said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He quickly hung up and took one more look up at Clayton’s window. The light was still on, and a shadow passed over the shade.

  Joe hustled across the street, through the lobby, and into an elevator before anyone at the front desk spotted him. The elevator deposited him on the fifth floor, and Joe was thankful for the relative quiet with which the doors opened and closed.

  The hallway was empty, and once Joe got his bearings, he moved swiftly down the corridor to Clayton’s room. The door was metal with a brass lever door handle and a security card lock. If it was locked, Joe told himself, he’d have to wait for whoever was inside to come out.

  But the door was not closed completely.

  Once again, Joe glanced up and down the carpeted corridor. No one was in sight. He’d feel stupid if one of the crooks crept up on him while he was attempting to do the same to one of them. Joe slowly eased the door open, expecting to find someone going through Clayton’s things.

  The room was empty but trashed. Most of Clayton’s belongings were spilled out in the middle of the floor.

  Joe eased into the room, leaving the door wide open. The bathroom was to his right, the door open, the lights off. Joe glanced inside to see if anyone was hiding in the shower. But the shower curtain was wide open.

  There was a closet on his left with a sliding door. Again Joe cautiously slid back the door, ready to move if someone sprang at him. Nothing. Perhaps whoever had ransacked the room had found what he wanted and taken off.

  When Joe turned back to face the main room, everything went dark. Someone strong and fast had thrown a pillowcase over his head and was trying to wrestle him to the floor. Joe struck out at the assailant, landing a hard right to the man’s ribs. He heard a grunt but was instantly slammed against a wall. Joe heard a door slam and realized he was still inside the room—now with the door closed. But he couldn’t tell exactly where he was.

  The attacker kept the pillowcase over Joe’s head with one hand while trying to twist Joe’s arm behind his back with the other. The two wrestled and stumbled around the room. Joe tried to break free of the man’s grip, or at least to see who his attacker was. The man suddenly changed his tactics. He looped an arm around Joe’s throat, effectively keeping the pillowcase in place, while strangling his victim.

  Joe could barely breathe. He knew he had to break free before he passed out.

  Joe violently twisted his body left,
then right, as hard and as fast as he could. At the same time, he brought his right arm up, breaking the assailant’s grip on his throat. The combined movements threw his attacker off balance for a moment.

  Crouching low, Joe reached up to pull the case from his face. That was when the man moved to the front of Joe and raised his knee into Joe’s chest. Joe flew backward, fully expecting to land on the floor or some piece of furniture. But a sudden impact, followed by the sound of shattering glass and a rush of air, told Joe where he was falling.

  He grabbed blindly for anything he could seize. He was four stories up, and he didn’t have to see to know what waited for him far below.

  8

  Big Brother Is Watching

  Joe Hardy’s hands shot out as he felt the rush of air and space around him. The wind stripped the pillowcase from his face, and his stomach twisted violently as the sickening sense of falling filled him with pure terror.

  All the sensations overlapped and happened in a flash. The buildings were up and down and lying on their sides, all at the same time. He caught a quick glimpse of people looking up and shards of glass falling around him like raindrops.

  Nothing was real, except his fear—until the fingers of his right hand felt rough stone. The windowsill, Joe’s mind screamed in recognition. Instantly he clenched his hand into a clawlike grip. His body dropping through space arced in toward the building, until it slammed into the brick wall. The red bricks dug into his chest, ribs, and knees. Pain exploded throughout his body.

  The air rushed out of his lungs, and his body swung and twisted wildly. Sharp bits of stone tore into Joe’s fingertips as he held on for dear life. The street was four stories below, and Joe knew the fall would kill him.

  As he bounced against the building again, Joe reached out ith his left hand, grasping for another handhold. His fingers clawed frantically until they clamped onto the narrow lip of a large protruding brick. Joe held on with both hands, the windowsill with his right, the brick facing with his left.

  Joe quickly jammed his foot into the pointing between two other bricks. The footing was precarious—not more than a quarter of an inch on which to rest some of his weight. But it held.

  “Don’t stop,” Joe muttered out loud. “Climb.” He knew either of his grips might give out at any moment. He took a deep breath and pushed up with his foot, while pulling up with both hands. Joe rose a few inches—just enough to reach up with his left hand and grab the windowsill.

  Straining hard and ignoring his pain, Joe pulled himself up and over the windowsill, then tumbled into the room.

  The room was dark, cool, and very empty.

  He lay there on the rough carpeting, his breath coming in short, raspy gulps. He felt the pain in his shoulder and side, and the stinging and burning where his flesh had been scraped or torn.

  Slowly rising up onto his elbows, Joe looked around. Clayton Silvers’s room had been searched by a pro. The dresser drawers were open and the contents thrown all over the floor.

  His suitcase was open, but the few things in it—business folders, magazines—were still intact.

  Whoever had been searching the room hadn’t had time to finish the job. Joe’s entrance must have interrupted him.

  Joe turned on a lamp by the head of the bed. He examined his hands carefully. The skin on his fingers was scraped a bit, but all in all, he was fine. The next day the bruising would show.

  He glanced about the room one more time, and something caught his attention. A thin plastic card was lying on the floor by the window. At first Joe thought it must be one of Clayton Silvers’s credit cards, but when he picked it up, he saw the familiar magnetic strip on one side, but the other side was blank. A long strip of flexible plastic dangled from the card, like the tail of a kite.

  What was it? Joe wondered.

  The sounds of running feet caused him to turn toward the door. He managed to slip the card into his pocket just as Assistant Manager Tally opened the door and entered. Two men in dark blue blazers followed closely behind him. Security was stitched across their left breast pockets in yellow and red thread.

  “What’s going on here?” Alfred Tally shouted when he saw the room. He stared at Joe for a moment and became even more confused. “You’re one of Mr. Hardy’s sons! Why were you hanging out of the window?”

  Joe’s mind was racing. What should he say? Tell all, and bring down more attention on Clayton? That might scare off the techno thieves and ruin any chance of clearing Clayton’s name.

  Before Joe could think of a third option, things became more complicated. Fenton Hardy walked through the door, followed by his client, Harlan Dean. Both men appeared to be very tense and alert, taking in everything in a glance.

  “Joe, what’s going on here?” Fenton asked.

  Joe grabbed at the first excuse that came to mind. “I came here to see Mr. Silvers and found a thief going through his stuff.”

  The assistant manager’s eyes grew wide. His mouth opened and closed without a sound.

  “We fought,” Joe continued. “But he got away.”

  Fenton stepped up to Joe. He noticed the scratches on his hands. “And the broken window?” he asked.

  “He threw me out, but I grabbed the windowsill.” Joe explained how he’d survived the near-fatal encounter. The whole time, the assistant manager stood stiff as a board, with a look of horror on his face. One security man examined the room, while the other called in the incident on his two-way radio.

  “I was just about to call the front desk when you arrived,” Joe concluded.

  “Whoever did this was thorough,” Harlan Dean said. He was standing by the window staring at the sill and the broken glass. “And you were lucky,” he told Joe.

  “Guess so,” Joe replied.

  Fenton Hardy put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Joe nodded.

  “Did they get anything?” Harlan Dean asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joe replied. “I guess Mr. Silvers will have to look around.”

  “We’ll have to locate him,” Mr. Tally said nervously. “And we’ll report this to the police, immediately.” He picked up the phone, then stopped and turned toward Fenton Hardy. “I certainly hope this won’t cause you to consider choosing another hotel, Mr. Hardy. Our security is usually top—”

  “We can discuss that later,” Fenton said abruptly. “Right now I suggest you check to see if any other rooms have been … burgled.”

  “Of course.” The assistant manager quickly signaled one of the security men to get on that, then he made his phone call.

  Joe didn’t miss the fact that his father had cut off the hotel worker deliberately. Why? he wondered. What was going on in the hotel, and how did it include Aunt Gertrude’s friend?

  Only one way to find out, Joe told himself. “What are you doing here, Dad?” he asked.

  “Working.” Fenton Hardy’s answer was sharp and terse. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll give your statement to the police. They can call if they need more information.”

  “Okay,” Joe replied hesitantly. He wanted to stay to see what his father was hiding. But he also needed to tell Frank and Clayton Silvers what had happened.

  “You can’t describe your assailant?” Harlan Dean asked. Joe felt as if Dean was studying him. As if he knew Joe was keeping something back.

  “No,” Joe said. “I never got a look at him.”

  Dean nodded and turned back toward the window.

  “You get on home and clean up,” Fenton Hardy told his son. He gently placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked sincerely.

  “Sure I am, Dad.”

  “Okay, then,” Fenton replied. “Please tell your aunt that I won’t be home tonight. Business.”

  Joe looked over at Harlan Dean, then back at his father, but didn’t say a word. He’d been here before. He knew his father had told him all he could or all he wanted to say.

  When he left the hote
l Joe found that his mind was racing. Had the man he fought with only been a burglar? It was possible. After all, the man had made sure to cover Joe’s face when he attacked. The two men who had attacked Clayton had done so openly, Joe told himself. No masks. They hadn’t even hidden their faces when they were staking out the Hardys’ home.

  Joe stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel and noticed the pieces of broken window glass on the ground. He glanced up at Clayton’s window and saw his father watching him. Fenton waved, then turned away.

  “This doesn’t add up,” Joe said softly. Did this have anything to do with the case their father was working on?

  “So many new questions,” Joe said as he hailed a cab. “And we haven’t even found the answers to the first ones.” He hoped Frank or Clayton and Aunt Gertrude were having better luck.

  At that moment Frank Hardy was hoping the same thing about his younger brother. Frank had spent the last hour going through the newspaper morgue and questioning Darryl about Clayton Silvers’s career.

  Frank had even tried putting together a list of potential targets in the Bayport area. The list was a total of two: Orion Electronics and Fairmont Industries, two high-tech companies with labs just outside Bayport. Now he was hoping the tracking device they’d found would give them a major lead.

  Frank pulled up in front of the familiar clapboard home of Phil Cohen, boy genius of Bayport. Phil had been a friend of the Hardys for years.

  He was a nice guy, a wizard with electronics, and he’d helped the Hardys on many of their cases. Frank was hoping this would be another time when Phil would come through for them.

  “Hey, Frank! What’s up?” Phil greeted Frank with a cheerful, energetic slap on the back. “Have I got some amazing stuff to show you!”

  “Whoa!” Frank said, holding his hands up. “Before you go there,” he said, “something’s come up, and we really need your help.”

  Frank showed Phil the small circular disk and told him everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours.