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  Frank started back the way he came. "Then let's get away from here."

  "Won't the police want to talk to you about your exploding automobile?" Karen asked.

  "That's exactly why we have to make a getaway. We don't have anything solid to hand to the law right now. And we don't have time to waste, either."

  Joe turned to Karen. "You up to some brisk hiking?"

  She grinned. "Sure. All I seem to have is a few scrapes and bruises - and one ruined raincoat."

  People with umbrellas were starting to appear, coming from restaurants and pubs. They surrounded the ruins of the car. Frank, Joe, and Karen turned their backs on the spectacle and slogged off in the rain.

  "So where do we go from here?" Karen asked.

  "I think it's time for a trip to beautiful Beswick," said Frank.

  Joe grinned. "Just what I was about to suggest myself."

  ***

  The three of them were able to catch the final train for Beswick that night. When they were settled into a compartment, Frank said, "What's the scoop, guys?"

  From inside his coat Joe took the envelope Karen had given him. "Some background material on Emily Cornwall."

  Studying the picture, Frank asked, "Does Jillian look like this?"

  "Quite a bit," Karen admitted.

  "So she could definitely impersonate the Cornwall girl." Frank turned his attention to the typewritten notes.

  "But Jillian wouldn't do it - not just to make money," Karen said.

  Joe chimed in with the theories that he and Karen had shared over the dinner table.

  "There's a third possibility," Frank said, still reading. "Suppose Nigel Hawkins came to Jillian. She knows him as a movie producer. He tells her he's planning a film based on the life of an heiress like Emily. He auditions her, maybe gets her to pose for some photos in a dark wig."

  "That would have worked." Karen, who was sharing a seat with Joe, suddenly hugged herself as if she'd gone cold. "I suppose Hawkins saw her someplace, in her play or on television, and realized how much she looked like Emily."

  "He could even have gotten her out of town without telling her what he really wanted her to do." Joe stared out at the fog-shrouded countryside rushing past. "He could have warned her not to tell anyone she was being considered for this big part."

  Frank set the pages and the picture on the seat beside him. "Which brings us to what I did tonight while you were feeding your faces," he said. "I paid a visit to Nigel Hawkins's offices. As I expected, he wasn't there. In fact, he hadn't been there for a while. The place was shut up tight."

  Joe sighed. "Another dead end."

  "Not exactly," Frank said. "I made a new friend - the concierge who takes care of the office building. He had a temporary forwarding address for Mr. Hawkins's mail - Beswick."

  Karen sat up straight. "Beswick - where Emily Cornwall is supposed to be staying."

  "Where Jillian Seabright may be," Joe added.

  "And Jed Shannon," Karen said. "You know, if Hawkins had him, he could force Jillian to go through with that scam of his. Do the job or he'll hurt Jed."

  "That could work, sure," Frank conceded.

  "Hawkins may have his troops at Beswick," Joe said.

  "There's the dapper gent with the blackjack, the guy with the broken nose - and probably lots of others who'll play rough." Frank frowned.

  "The violence is getting worse and worse. We've gone from warning shots and threatening notes to beatings and car bombs." Joe's face was grim. "If the timing had been a little different, Karen and I would have been blown up tonight."

  "I don't think so," his brother said.

  "Hey, that car was totaled," Joe protested. "Anybody sitting in it - "

  "That's my point, Joe. You weren't in it. These guys seem pretty efficient. They wouldn't set a bomb to go off at random, just hoping you'd be in the car at the time."

  Karen leaned forward, resting her palm on her knee. "You're saying that the explosion was meant simply as another warning?"

  "I'd guess that one of Hawkins's boys was watching. When he spotted you heading for the car, he detonated the bomb electronically from a safe distance."

  "Risky," Joe objected. "They couldn't be sure that a fender wouldn't crack my skull - or the engine block wouldn't break Karen's neck."

  "Ouch," she said, rubbing her neck.

  "Oh, they're not saints, Joe. But they basically only wanted to scare us. If somebody got killed, well, that was too bad. But it wouldn't stop them from going ahead with their plans."

  "Wait a second," Joe said. "To plant a bomb in the car, they had to know where Karen and I were having dinner."

  "I've been thinking about that." Frank was poker-faced. "They had to have somebody shadowing you."

  "I usually spot tails."

  "Well, you didn't this time - we'll all need to be especially careful."

  Joe drummed the fingers of his left hand on the seat, looking again out of the window of the onrushing train.

  After a few seconds of silence, Karen burst out, "There's another way they could have known. Why not mention it?"

  "What?" Joe looked uncomfortable.

  "I could have phoned them from the restaurant," she said. "After all, I did leave the table to visit the restroom."

  "Hey," said Joe, "we all trust each other."

  "Does Frank trust me?"

  Frank met her stare. "Yes, Karen. I didn't bring up the possibility, because I do trust you. Okay?"

  "I guess so."

  After a few minutes of silence, Joe shifted in his seat. "Do they have a dining car on this train?"

  "I'd think so," Karen said.

  "Let's go find it. I need a soda - something to drink. We won't be in Beswick for nearly three hours, and nothing will be open by then."

  "Not interested." Frank picked up the material on Emily Cornwall.

  "Karen?"

  "Not yet, Joe. After nearly getting blown up, I just want to sit back and take it easy."

  "Well, I think I'll go foraging for supplies." Joe hesitated for a second in the doorway. "Can I bring anything back?"

  Both Frank and Karen shook their heads.

  "Then I'll see you in a while." Joe slid the door open and stepped into the corridor of the swaying train.

  He'd gotten through two cars when his path was blocked by a little old lady carrying a covered basket. She was standing by a door that led out into the night in an otherwise empty stretch of corridor.

  The train was passing through a less-settled section of countryside. The fog was thinning, but there wasn't much to see outside the glass window in the door. Joe saw only dark fields and an occasional distant light.

  "Thank goodness!" The elderly woman's voice had a strange quavering tone as she called to Joe. "Could you help me, young man?"

  "What's the problem, ma'am?"

  "These silly spectacles. Could you hold my hamper for a moment?"

  "Sure, I'd be glad to." Joe took the basket, which turned out to be unexpectedly heavy.

  "Thank you so much." The woman removed her rimless glasses and pulled a tissue from her pocket. She breathed on the lenses, bending over to do the job carefully. All Joe could see was wild gray hair peeking from beneath a patterned head scarf. Joe was amazed that such a frail-looking person could manage the heavy load she was toting. What did she have in there? Books? Bricks?

  "That's much better." The woman slipped on her glasses and looked up at Joe with surprisingly young-looking eyes. She lifted the lid of the basket Joe was holding and yanked out a MAC-10 submachine gun.

  Backing away, the old woman pointed the gun at Joe's chest. "Time for you to get off the train."

  Joe stared. "But it's still moving."

  The gun barrel poked him in the chest as his captor nodded. "That's exactly the idea."

  Chapter 11

  Joe stood frozen as the little old lady - who was, he realized a bit too late, actually a small man in disguise - opened the metal door. The machine gun poked Joe aga
in in the ribs as the man said, "Had me worried there for a while. We had three drop-off points set up but passed two of them without a sight of you. Thought I'd have to do something right desperate to get one of you Hardys off alone. But third time lucky, I guess."

  He glanced out the open doorway. "There'll be a car waiting for us. When we see a yellow lantern by the tracks, off we go."

  "I don't think so, Granny." Joe dropped into a sudden crouch, swinging the hamper with all his strength.

  The basket smashed into the gunman's hand, knocking the MAC-10 out of his grasp. It spun away, seemingly sucked into the darkness beyond the doorway.

  The metal door stood open and flapping. Now the sound of the speeding train was enormously loud.

  Dodging, Joe swung the basket again.

  The phony granny glasses flew free, hitting the corridor floor. As the two struggled, the glass lenses were stomped into crunchy fragments.

  Joe fought desperately. At least he had succeeded in moving the fight away from the doorway. His opponent fell backward, cracking his head on the wall. Joe moved forward, confident of victory. Unfortunately, he walked right into his enemy's last attack.

  An outflung foot caught Joe in the waist. The blow took the wind out of him and sent him staggering backward.

  He tried to grab the sides of the doorway. Instead he caught only chilly air.

  Joe went sailing off the train.

  He twisted as he fell, landing on his side with a tremendous jolt. Landing on a slanting, pebbly slope beyond the tracks, he went rolling downward about fifty feet. Finally he came to a stop beside a dark roadway.

  The train went roaring on its way without him.

  Frank looked out the compartment window as the train slowed to stop at a small rural station. The brightly lit platform was empty except for a fat man in a long black overcoat. He wore a checkered cap with earflaps and was holding an empty bird cage. Two passengers got off the train, both bundled in shapeless overcoats. Soon the train was pulling out of the station, and they were rolling again through the darkness.

  "I guess Joe found his drink, and a place to sit down and enjoy it," Karen said, glancing at her watch.

  "When it comes to finding supplies or a place to hang out, Joe has a sixth sense," Frank told her. "He probably found - " Frank managed to cut his voice off before he said, "some pretty girl." Instead, he finished the sentence with, " - a snack to go with his drink."

  "You're probably right," Karen said.

  Frank sighed. This had been an especially rough day - getting rapped in the head, running around, spending long hours searching for clues. The sounds of the train wheels on the tracks began slowly fading. The rattling and the swaying died down.

  With another sigh Frank's head dipped forward.

  Karen's hazel eyes were troubled. "He's been gone quite a while," she said quietly, not wanting to wake Frank.

  Karen watched the darkness roll by outside for a few more minutes. Finally she got to her feet. "I think I'll go look for him."

  ***

  The next thing Frank knew, he was being roughly shaken.

  "Wake up! Wake up!" a frantic female voice cried in his ear.

  "Who? What?" Frank said fuzzily.

  "Joe's not in the dining car. I don't think he's on the train."

  Frank licked his lips and blinked. His eyes finally focused, and he recognized Karen. Her words still hadn't penetrated. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Joe is gone."

  Rising to his feet, Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "I must have dozed off," he admitted. "Joe's in the dining car."

  "No, he's not." Karen was shaking with tension. "I checked with the dining car, and Joe never made it there. Nobody's seen him. He's not in any of the compartments."

  "Take it easy, Karen. I'll go take a look around." Still feeling a little drowsy, Frank got to his feet. "Maybe he just stepped into a washroom."

  "He didn't. I had the conductor check them all out." She was pacing around the compartment. "We'll have to stop the train."

  Now Frank headed for the door. "Wait on that. I'll go hunt for some trace of Joe and ask a few questions."

  Karen's voice was high. "They either threw Joe off the moving train or bundled him off at one of the stops. He could be - "

  Frank cut her off. "Sit down. Wait for me here. Don't panic."

  He left the compartment. Fifteen minutes later he returned, looking worried.

  "You didn't find him, did you?"

  "There's no sign of Joe on this train." Frank sat down quietly opposite the nervous girl. "Nobody saw him talking to anyone. Nobody saw anyone grabbing him, and nobody saw Joe get off the train at any of the stations."

  Karen was back on her feet again. "Joe could be lying by the tracks, all broken and bloody, somewhere back there." She flung an arm at the darkness outside. "Or they've got him tied up in a car somewhere. Face it, Frank. We've got to stop the train."

  "That won't do much good."

  She stared at Frank in disbelief. "But he's your brother! He may be in big trouble!"

  "Listen, please. If Joe was grabbed and taken off this train, it has to be Hawkins's men who did the job."

  "I know! That's why we have to stop the train and hurry back!"

  "Why?" Frank asked bluntly. "The odds are they're taking him to Beswick. And that's where we're heading."

  "They might just murder him and bury him in the woods."

  "So far they haven't killed anybody. Smart thieves don't go around murdering people - it gets the police too annoyed with them."

  Frank took a deep breath, still trying to get his brains to work. "What we have to do is get to Beswick and find Hawkins's hideout, his base of operations. Joe will be there."

  "Aren't you worried about him?" Karen demanded.

  Frank's head snapped around. "Of course I'm worried. But Joe knows how to take care of himself. I'm betting he can handle whatever situation he's in." He was on his feet, too, pacing the small compartment. "Halting the train and searching all the tracks and stations for thirty or forty miles back will take up time we don't have."

  "I hope you're right," Karen said, folding her arms.

  Frank nodded, his face grim. "I hope so, too."

  ***

  Joe stayed where he was for a moment or two, taking stock of his situation. Although he was sore and battered, nothing important seemed broken or seriously hurt. He got up on his hands and knees, pushed, and stood up.

  As far as he could tell, he was standing beside a narrow country road. The shadowy outlines of trees and hedges were all he could make out in the dark fields. Far off in the night glowed a few tiny lights that might be farmhouses or cottages.

  His stiff muscles protested as he forced himself into movement. Looks like I have a hike ahead of me, he thought.

  Joe thrust his hands into his pockets and started trudging along the road. The chilly night breeze was against him. He'd banged his left knee while rolling downhill. It twinged with every limping step he took.

  Joe had no idea where he was, but he figured the road had to lead somewhere. At some point he'd encounter an outpost of civilization - a town, a village, a railroad station.

  "Wish I'd gotten that drink. Cross-country walking is thirsty work," he muttered.

  The road didn't seem very popular. Not a single car passed in either direction.

  A half mile from where he'd taken his dive from the train, Joe saw a big black form beside the road. Then he realized it was a car - a large black car, lights out, waiting for something.

  The words of his attempted kidnapper came back to Joe now. This must be the car that was supposed to meet them, Joe thought. Deciding he'd better avoid it, Joe ducked off for the woodlands that lined the road. He hadn't gone three steps before he stepped on a dead branch that broke with a loud snap.

  The side door of the car flew open, and a gruff voice called out, "Did ya get us one of them, Willie?"

  "Ar," answered Joe. He was almost behind the big au
to, closer to the woods than the car.

  "Which one is it - Frank or Joe Hardy?"

  "How do I bloomin' know?" Joe snarled. He hoped he was making his voice sound pretty close to that of his almost-kidnapper.

  "Well, don't stand there like a bump on a log. Bring whoever it is over here. Now."

  Instead Joe darted for the woods, away from the car. Behind him he heard the car door slam. He ran on.

  The next sound Joe heard was a pistol shot.

  Chapter 12

  It was nearly dawn when Frank and Karen arrived at the small ramshackle hotel two miles from the Beswick train station. The lobby was done in white plaster with moldings on the walls and looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the turn of the century.

  Up from behind the ancient mahogany registration desk popped the bald head of a man of about sixty. "Ah, newly weds, I wager," he said, rubbing his plump hands together and chuckling. "Run off and eloped, have you? Well, you couldn't have picked a more scenic spot. Ah, yes, Beswick is an idyllic little place, and the Winterbotham Wayside Hotel is, if I do say so myself, a jewel in the crown of this quaint and attractive village. I happen to be Winterbotham himself." He chuckled once more and slid the leather-bound register across the desk toward them.

  "Good morning, Mr. Winterbotham," Frank said. "We'd like separate rooms."

  "Don't tell me you're at odds already - and your honeymoon barely under way."

  "We're not married. We're here on business."

  "Business, you say? Well, then, let me assure you that Winterbotham's Wayside Hotel is known throughout the county of Kent as the businessman's haven." The plump proprietor nodded vigorously. "You'll find us ideally equipped for every kind of commercial endeavor. There are, to cite only one of a multitude of examples, telephones in nearly every room."

  He glanced at Frank as if he expected an argument. "The telephone, as I needn't point out to a clever young businessman such as yourself, is a boon to the transacting of business. In addition, there is a very efficient manual typewriter on the premises, and it is available at any hour of the day or night, at a nominal fee, for the typing of the most demanding business documents."