The London Deception Read online

  “In case you’re interested, Dennis, I am also uninjured,” Emily said from the other side of the stage.

  “The ghost has it in for this play,” Corey Lista snapped, stepping up to Mr. Paul, his brow furrowed in anger. “I’m not hanging about to see what she does next.”

  Frank checked out the courthouse facade. The cleats that had attached the set piece to the steel cables had been torn away from the top of the frame, revealing numerous screw holes in the wood where the cleats had been secured.

  Frank noticed a few larger holes where the wood had splintered as the screws were torn out by the falling weight, but most of the holes were small and smooth. Frank looked around the stage floor for loose screws that had been dislodged but could only find three.

  “Frank!” Joe shouted as he ran up to his brother’s side.

  “I’m fine, Joe, but check this out,” Frank said, showing him the three screws. “I have a hunch most of these screws were removed,” Frank explained. “The few screws that remained couldn’t bear the weight and tore loose.”

  “More sabotage,” Joe concluded.

  “What happened, Frank?” Jennifer asked as she stepped up to survey the damage.

  Joe started to open his mouth, but Frank nudged him to stay quiet. If Jennifer were responsible, Frank figured she might try to hide the truth. “We don’t know,” Frank answered Jennifer. “What do you think?”

  Jennifer looked at the top of the frame, then high up into the stage house where the steel pipe that had held the piece still dangled. “It looks like it was deliberate. Someone pulled the screws.”

  Joe nodded to Frank, satisfied

  “Corey, you can’t quit over a ghost!” Mr. Paul argued with his disgruntled stage manager.

  Joe and Frank stepped up behind Lista. “Chances are it wasn’t a ghost,” Frank interjected, then explained what he had discovered and what he thought it meant.

  “Whether it’s a ghost or incompetence or sabotage, I’m not risking my skin another day here!” Lista fumed.

  “You have to give me two weeks notice so that I can replace you,” Mr. Paul pleaded with him.

  “My union allows me to walk immediately if working conditions are unsafe,” Lista replied firmly, handing Mr. Paul the stage manager’s prompt book. “These conditions aren’t just unsafe, they’re deadly.”

  Lista stormed off the stage, passing Timothy Jeffries in the aisle. “Good heavens, now what?” Jeffries exclaimed, scowling at the sight of the wrecked scenery.

  Frank noticed Emily Anderson sitting off to the side away from the action and recalled Chris’s concern that she hadn’t moved as she had been directed a moment before the set piece fell.

  “You sure are lucky you stayed down on the edge of the stage, Ms. Anderson,” Frank said, acting concerned so that his words wouldn’t sound like an accusation. “If you had gone to the classroom, you might have been badly hurt.”

  “Yes, Emily, that’s right,” Mr. Paul said, having had his memory jogged by Frank’s comment. “Why did you change your blocking?”

  “I felt it would be more effective to stay downstage until the scene was fully set, and then walk into it,” she replied, undaunted. “So I tried it.”

  “You have to admit, it does seem a bit suspicious,” Mr. Paul said.

  Emily rose to her feet. “I don’t have to admit anything,” she said icily, then walked off the stage.

  “It appears you have a mutiny on your hands, Mr. Paul,” Jeffries remarked.

  As Joe watched Emily Anderson storm up the aisle, his eye caught some movement in one of the private box seating areas. The curtain behind the plush chairs had been pulled aside. A face was peeking through, but the moment Joe focused on it, it disappeared.

  “Someone’s behind that curtain!” Joe called to the others.

  “Show yourself, whoever you are!” Mr. Paul shouted. No one responded.

  Joe jumped off the stage. “How do I get to those seats?” he yelled over his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry!” a voice above him called out. A man in a work shirt and tool belt stepped timidly through the curtain of the private box. “I heard the crash and peeked in—it’s none of my business.”

  “What is your business?” Mr. Paul demanded.

  “I’m an electrician,” the man replied. “I was just—”

  “He’s an electrician, I can verify that,” Jeffries interrupted. “After the incident with the lights, I wanted to be sure there wasn’t a problem with the electrical wiring in the theater.”

  “Would you mind showing us your identification?” Joe asked.

  “Why, you impudent little—” Jeffries snapped at Joe.

  “I don’t mind,” the electrician replied, and dropped his wallet down to Joe.

  Jennifer verified that his identification card was in order, then tossed the wallet back up to the electrician in the box. “So, was there a problem with the wiring?” Jennifer asked.

  “No, it’s installed to B.S.I. standards,” the electrician replied. “You’ve passed inspection.”

  “Thank you,” Jeffries said to the electrician. “If you’ll meet me in my office, we can conclude our business.” Jeffries now turned to Mr. Paul. “As for you and this circus of bungling fools you call a show, I don’t want any actors on the stage until everything is fully repaired. If one of their union representatives saw this—”

  “I know, they might close down our show,” Mr. Paul said.

  “Worse, they would give me a hefty fine,” Jeffries concluded before heading back to his office.

  Mr. Paul turned to his son, patted him on the back, then turned to the rest of the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, this may be the final straw. We don’t have the money to hire the stage carpenters to rebuild the set. Whoever the saboteur is, it appears that he or she has won.”

  “Could we rebuild it ourselves?” Joe asked.

  “I’m only allowed to use union labor, Joseph,” Mr. Paul told him.

  “We’re already using Joe as a nonunion spot operator,” Jennifer said. “To borrow the American phrase, I say we ‘go for it.’ Give me Frank, Joe, and Chris and we can have this rebuilt in a day or two.”

  “I couldn’t. It’s illegal,” Mr. Paul said. “Even with free labor, we’d have to buy the lumber and hardware,” Mr. Paul pointed out.

  “What about the anonymous donation?” Frank asked.

  “We need that for costumes,” Mr. Paul replied.

  “The school has quite a large costume collection,” Chris suggested. “Perhaps we could borrow them.”

  “A production of this magnitude using worn-out, inexpensive school costumes?” Mr. Paul wondered aloud.

  “It would be better than no production at all,” Frank reasoned.

  “Remember, Dad, the show must go on,” Chris reminded him of the old saying.

  “Everyone here would have to be willing to look the other way,” Mr. Paul said, gesturing to the full cast and crew assembled. Everyone nodded or spoke their approval.

  “Then it’s settled,” Chris said, smiling.

  Jennifer made a list of all the materials she needed for the repairs and estimated the total cost. “I’ll defer the cost of labor,” she said, handing the list to Dennis Paul.

  “Thank you, Jennifer,” Mr. Paul said, then pulled out the bank envelope full of money.

  “How did you get the money so quickly?” Chris asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Kije happened to have it on hand in his office,” Mr. Paul replied. “He exchanged it for the cashier’s check.”

  Frank and Joe were stunned—Dennis Paul was lying.

  Mr. Paul counted out fifteen hundred pounds and handed it to Chris.

  “Take this to buy the lumber and other things,” Mr. Paul instructed his son. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to find Emily to calm her down.”

  “Do you have something I can put the money in?” Chris asked his father.

  Mr. Paul opened his briefcase and found an open, used envelope.

  Joe cau
ght the name and address on the envelope: Kije Enterprises, Inc.

  “Let me help you,” Joe said, holding open the envelope while Mr. Paul transferred the money into it. Joe checked the address and silently repeated it until he had it memorized, then handed the envelope to Chris.

  “Tell them we need the lumber delivered immediately,” Dennis Paul told his son. “You and Joseph can carry back the other things yourselves.”

  “I’ll stay with Jennifer and help clean up the mess,” Frank offered.

  “As will I,” Mr. Paul added.

  As Joe and Chris passed through the lobby, Joe noticed Corey Lista talking with Timothy Jeffries. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Mr. Jeffries,” Lista piped up loudly when he saw Joe. “But it’s a matter of safety.”

  “Boys!” Jeffries called to Joe and Chris as they pushed open the theater doors. “What’s going on now, where are you going?”

  “To buy lumber to rebuild the set,” Chris said, holding up the envelope.

  “Well, excellent,” Jeffries said after a hesitation. “Perhaps we’ll open and be a hit after all.”

  As Joe and Chris trotted down the steps at the underground station, Joe asked his friend whether he had told anyone about the Haunted London tour.

  “Sure,” Chris replied, “a couple of my mates at school got a big laugh out of it.”

  “Did you tell your father?” Joe asked as he slipped his underground pass into the slot at the turnstile.

  “Yeah. Why?” Chris asked, concern crossing his face.

  Joe heard the rumble of a train approaching in the station and used it as an excuse to dodge Chris’s question. “Let’s hurry so we can catch this train.”

  “Hold this!” Chris said, handing Joe the envelope of money while he pulled his underground pass from his wallet.

  After Chris went through the turnstile, the boys rushed down the steps and onto the crowded platform.

  Joe saw the train pulling in at the far end of the station and stepped toward the edge of the platform. Suddenly someone grabbed the envelope in Joe’s hand.

  “Hey!” Joe shouted, hanging on to the envelope as the man, who looked like a punk rocker with long black hair and sunglasses, attempted to push Joe away and take it.

  The envelope ripped wide open, scattering the money all over the platform. Joe was flung backward and over the edge of the platform, directly into the path of the oncoming train!

  9 The Chase Down the Tube Tunnel

  * * *

  Joe heard the squeal of the train wheels as his shoulder struck the iron rail on the tracks.

  “Joe!” Chris shouted, kneeling and stretching his hand down to the younger Hardy. Joe grabbed hold and jumped at the same time Chris yanked and was launched up onto the platform just as the front car of the train came to a stop at the spot where Joe had fallen.

  Joe scanned the crowd, most of whom were staring at him. Then he spotted the thief pushing past people on the stairs.

  Chris dropped to his hands and knees, collecting the money. “Forget about him, Joe, we have the money.”

  Joe Hardy’s temper was up, and he pushed through the crowd, not heeding his friend. When he reached the top of the stairs, a yellow sign reading Way Out was to his right. To his left, signs pointed to Hammersmith and City, a different train line in the underground system.

  Joe peered over a sea of pedestrians who made their way through the tunnel. Far away, he saw a head of long black hair duck down a staircase leading to the Hammersmith trains. Joe scuttled along the wall to the stairs, avoiding the swarm of people in the center of the tunnel.

  When he reached the Hammersmith platform, it was dotted with a modest number of commuters. Joe feared a train had just left the station, carrying the thief with it. No one was moving toward the steps out, though, which confirmed for Joe that no train had just let off passengers. From behind a column at the far end of the platform, Joe saw a head of long black hair peek out.

  Seeing Joe, the thief turned to run. Joe saw no stairs leading out at the thief’s end of the platform and thought he had him cornered until the man dropped down onto the tracks and disappeared into the darkness of the subway tunnel.

  Determined not to lose him, Joe climbed down onto the tracks and gave chase, disregarding the warning shouts of onlookers.

  The tunnel was very dimly lit, but Joe pressed on, running down the tracks despite not being able to see the man he was pursuing. A light source around a bend ahead of him suddenly silhouetted the man, who had stopped dead.

  The light source grew brighter, and Joe realized it was the lights of an oncoming train.

  The man grabbed hold of a steel support beam and swiftly shimmied up it. Pushing aside a metal grate in the ceiling of the tunnel, he released himself from the support beam and hung over the tracks for a second before hoisting himself through the space in the grating.

  Joe tried to follow, but the support beam offered no foot or handholds, and he slipped back down to the tracks. The Hammersmith train rounded the bend and Joe pressed his body against the wall behind the support beam.

  The train whizzed by within a few inches of Joe’s back, whipping his pant legs with the wind it created. After the train passed, Joe breathed a sigh of relief. He stared up at the grating through which the man had climbed and wondered about what sort of person had the strength and agility to make such an escape.

  A flashlight beam suddenly shown in Joe’s eyes. “All right, you. Move slowly toward me with your hands raised,” the man holding the flashlight ordered.

  As Joe stepped closer, he recognized the uniform of a transport officer.

  A few minutes later Joe found himself with Chris in the office of the transport police, answering questions.

  “You’re telling me this geezer scaled the beam, pushed aside a fifty-pound grate, and climbed up to the street through the ventilation shaft?” the officer asked, wrinkling his forehead skeptically.

  “He wasn’t a geezer, he was a young man,” Joe clarified.

  “By ‘geezer’ he just means, oh, what would you Yanks say . . . a ‘guy,’ ” Chris told him.

  “You’d have to be a spider to reach the surface from that tunnel,” the officer said.

  “I don’t know how he did it, either,” Joe agreed.

  “You should know better than to carry fifteen hundred quid around in an envelope,” the officer scolded both of them. “London’s full of pickpockets.”

  “This wasn’t just a pickpocket,” Joe told him, and briefly explained about the ghost of Quill Garden, the acts of sabotage in the theater, and the assailant they chased through the adjacent building during the walking tour of Haunted London.

  “The Ghost of Quill Garden and Haunted London, eh?” the officer repeated. “You’d better stay away from Madame Tussaud’s, or you’ll be in here tomorrow telling me one of the wax works came to life and bit you.”

  “Joe’s not irrational,” Chris assured the man.

  “He chased a pickpocket—who hadn’t even gotten your money, I might add—into an active train tunnel,” the officer pointed out. “The only blokes I know more irrational than that are dead ones.”

  “Sorry, I was angry,” Joe replied, rubbing his shoulder where it had struck the iron rail of the tracks.

  “I’m not making light of this, boys, but we get twenty complaints a day about cutpurses,” the officer said earnestly. “I’ll file this report right way.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Joe said, rising.

  • • •

  Ninety minutes later Joe and Chris returned to the theater from the store and were busily helping Frank unload plywood off the back of a delivery truck in the side alley. The large trash bin overflowed with the damaged remains of the courthouse set, which Frank and Jennifer had cleared.

  Chris went inside to help Jennifer measure and cut wood. While the Hardys continued unloading, they spoke privately about the recent events.

  “Climbs like a spider?” Frank said thoughtfully. “Jenni
fer’s pretty agile.”

  “What about Neville Shah?” Joe guessed.

  Frank shook his head. “Not with a broken wrist.”

  “Maybe it’s not really broken,” Joe suggested.

  “Jennifer told us that story. The whole crew saw Shah fall off the ladder,” Frank reminded Joe. “And we’ve proven he couldn’t have been the figure in white I saw in the lighting booth. He couldn’t have reappeared on stage that quickly, even if he was Houdini.”

  “We’re also sure that whoever is involved has an accomplice,” Joe said.

  “Not Emily Anderson, she was onstage,” Frank recalled. “Jennifer was with me, and Mr. Paul was directing when the first ‘accident’ occurred.”

  “Mr. Jeffries claimed he was in his office at the time,” Joe added.

  “Couldn’t be him, either. He came up the main staircase to the balcony,” Frank said. “There’s no way he could get from the back stairs to the main stairs without coming through the theater.”

  “Could there be more than one accomplice?” Joe pondered aloud.

  “Possibly. If we could just track down Mr. Kije—” Frank began.

  “One-eleven Old Castle Street, Suite five-oh-two,” Joe blurted out, then explained about the address on the envelope that he had memorized.

  “When we take a food break, you can check out Mr. Kije,” Frank suggested. “Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Emily Anderson’s agent, Ian Link, see what I can find out about this other show she wants to do.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell you anything?” Joe wondered.

  “When I tell him I’m an intern working for Mr. Schulander, I think he might,” Frank replied, smiling.

  • • •

  By late afternoon the Hardys and Chris had helped Jennifer rebuild the courthouse set piece, and put a base coat of white paint on it.

  “The rest is detail and texturing to make the wood look like marble,” Jennifer said.

  “I’ve done quite a lot of that for school plays,” Chris offered.

  “Good, Chris, you stay with me,” Jennifer said, then looked at the Hardys. “As much as I’d like to offer lessons, I think it’ll be faster if Chris and I do it ourselves.”