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  Hawkins continued in a smooth, almost chatty tone. "I mean really, dear boys, you've come uncomfortably close to throwing a wrench in the works."

  Frank knew his face was pale, but he tried to sound as calm as Hawkins when he spoke. "The wrench has already been tossed, Nigel. Before I headed up here this morning, I stopped at the Beswick police station."

  "Did you now?"

  "If I don't get in touch with them within an hour, they'll be out here in force."

  Hawkins had a harsh, nasal laugh. "Nice try, m'lad," he said. "Unfortunately for you, though, I overheard you telling good old Jed here that you hadn't talked to the local coppers. So if you'll be so kind as to climb through this break in the wall . . ."

  "Okay, maybe I was bluffing about the police," Frank said. "But I'm here with someone who'll go to the police if I don't turn up."

  "You mean Karen Kirk? Oh, yes," Hawkins said, smiling at the look on Frank's face. "I know all about the young lady. And I sincerely hope she doesn't try what you're suggesting."

  Hawkins smiled like a cat waiting outside a mouse hole. "You see, I have someone watching over her. He knows what she looks like - but she doesn't know him." Hawkins's smile grew colder. "She won't even know what hit her."

  He gestured with the gun. "Enough chat, I think. March along now, lads."

  Hawkins kept them covered all the way into the ancient keep and down a dark hallway that ended in a thick walnut door. Leaning against the gray stone wall was a big, wide man in a black pullover and dark jeans. He had close-cropped graying hair and a broken nose.

  "Limehouse, old man," Hawkins greeted the big man who threw the door open. The two prisoners were confronted with a long flight of chipped stone steps leading to a lower level of the castle.

  "Escort these two reckless lads the rest of the way down and lock them into one of our cozier dungeon cells."

  "Can I knock them around a little?" Limehouse inquired in a rough, growling voice. He sounded a little too eager to Frank.

  Hawkins poked his tongue into his cheek, staring up at the low, damp ceiling. "Not just yet, Limehouse," he said. "Keep in mind that our friend Mr. Shannon's face is his fortune. We wouldn't want to force him into a new line of work. I mean, he's doing so well as a movie star."

  "I could hit him in lots of places besides his face," the big man offered. "Places where it wouldn't show."

  "No, don't hit either of them for a while," Hawkins instructed his henchman. "Mind you, if they try to escape, then do as you see fit. Short of killing them, though. One hates to resort to murder."

  Limehouse lifted a snub-nosed .38 revolver from the waistband of his trousers. "Okay, kiddies, start down those steps," he ordered. "Single file, and no funny stuff. You can't be much of a movie star if you don't have any kneecaps."

  "So I've heard." Jed's voice was little more than a mutter as he started the trek downward.

  ***

  Joe Hardy sneezed.

  The two old ladies dozing over their magazines snapped awake to glare at him. They didn't have far to frown. The small library was only a single room lined with light oak bookshelves.

  "Dust," Joe apologized, pointing to the scatter of old papers and charts spread across the table in front of him. He smiled as charmingly as possible and went back to taking notes.

  Karen Kirk was pretending to browse, moving around the bookshelves with her hands behind her back. She eased over to one of the bow windows in the small room, taking a careful glance out into the street.

  Returning to Joe's side, she whispered, "How's the old research coming?"

  "I've got just about everything we need."

  Sitting, she moved her chair up next to his. Her voice was even softer as she whispered in his ear, "I think somebody is following us."

  "You mean the little guy in the raincoat?"

  She pulled back. "You noticed him already?"

  "He was watching us outside the hotel, loitering around the restaurant, then tailed us here."

  Karen was looking distinctly unhappy. "What are we going to do?"

  Joe grinned. "How are you at fainting?"

  "Beg pardon?"

  He spelled it out for her. "Can you pretend to faint?"

  "I suppose so, but Jillian's the actress, not me. Should I try it right here?"

  "Save your acting juices," Joe told her with a grin. "Go out the front door of the library. Look excited, like you had to get someplace important in a hurry. Turn down that alley we saw, next to the butcher shop. Once you're sure the man in the raincoat is following you, faint and fall down when you're halfway down the alley."

  Karen gave him a dubious look. "You realize that alley is going to be pretty dirty."

  "Just do it, okay?"

  "All right, but wallowing in garbage isn't my idea of fun."

  "Look, you ruined that raincoat when we hit the dirt last night," Joe said, his face suddenly grim, "and wallowing in crud is a lot more fun than getting kidnapped or shot."

  Joe quietly headed out the back door of the library. Moving in a slight crouch, he slipped behind the high hedge surrounding the small front lawn. From there, unobserved, he could watch the man in the tan raincoat.

  He was beginning to suspect that he'd met the person tailing them before. This was the same guy who, disguised as a little old lady, had given him a quick flying lesson off the train last night.

  The front door of the library swung open, and Karen, looking excited and upset, came hurrying out. She started walking rapidly toward the local police station, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. Her eyes stared straight ahead, as if she was intent on reaching there as soon as she possibly could.

  The small man in the long, flapping raincoat hesitated, frowning across at the doorway of the library. Then, when he saw where Karen was heading, he tightened the belt of his coat and took off after her. Joe noticed that he stayed on the opposite side of the street, walking at a slower pace so he could keep an eye on Karen.

  Joe waited.

  As soon as Karen stepped into the alley, her shadow crossed to the other sidewalk and started after her.

  Chapter 15

  The man in the raincoat had his eyes only on the girl.

  Joe sprinted across the street. By the time he reached the mouth of the alley, Karen was going into her fainting act. She did it very convincingly, swaying, taking a few staggering steps, trying to steady herself against the brick wall. Then, dropping to her knees, she toppled forward.

  The man who was trailing her froze in surprise. Then he ran toward the fallen girl. Joe smiled. As he expected, the guy was completely fooled.

  Putting on another burst of speed, Joe came up on the man and jabbed two fingers hard in his back. "Very slowly, raise both your hands and lock them behind your head." Joe's muscles tensed as he waited for the response. If the guy didn't buy his phony gun, he'd have to throw him into a wall.

  "The lass has fainted. I was only trying to lend a hand."

  "I want both of them behind your head!" Joe growled. "I recognized you in the street, Granny."

  The little man seemed to shrink into himself. He also raised both hands.

  At the same time, Karen stood up, brushing her skirt. "I fell right on top of a melon rind," she said accusingly to Joe.

  "Frisk him," was all Joe said.

  Karen made a face and searched the man. She located a .32 revolver and a switchblade knife. Moving around behind their prisoner, Karen turned the weapons over to Joe.

  "We're going to leave you in this alley for now."

  "Don't shoot me, lad. I treated you well last night, didn't I?"

  "Sure. Nobody ever gave me a nicer order to jump off a moving train before." Joe's voice was grim as he prodded the man with the gun barrel. "Take off the raincoat."

  "You want my raincoat?"

  "I'm going to borrow it for a while."

  "How in the bloomin' - "

  "Hurry up and get out of it. We still have to tie you up and gag you."

  The
gunman's voice was sharp. "Leaving me lying about in this alley isn't going to sit right with certain people."

  "I know," Joe told him. "That's one of the reasons I'm doing it.'

  ***

  At a few minutes past noon the silence of the Castle Fear dungeons was broken by footsteps. Inside the damp, gray cell Frank Hardy turned from staring at the slightly slimy stone wall in front of him. Jed Shannon was already standing by the door, where a key was rattling in the lock.

  Limehouse, Nigel Hawkins's hulking thug, swung the door open with one hand. His other held a gun on them. "Let's go, boys," he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. "You're wanted upstairs."

  "For what?" asked Jed.

  "You're playing the wrong part, actor." The broken-nosed thug pointed to the stairway. "You got no lines to ask questions in this script."

  Prodded by Limehouse, Jed and Frank climbed the stone steps. They marched along a paneled hallway on the ground floor of Castle Fear, then into a large, beam-ceilinged room. French doors let wan sunlight into the room, and even though it was summer, a fire crackled in the hearth on the far wall.

  Jed stood in the doorway staring at the slender blond girl sitting at an enormous dining table. "Jillian!"

  She was a very pretty young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, although just now her face was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. That gave her an even stronger resemblance to Emily Cornwall.

  She stared as if she were seeing a ghost when Jed appeared. For a second the glow in Jillian's face made her look incredibly beautiful. Then it disappeared, like a light that had been abruptly shut off, as her face crumpled into tears. Jed dashed over to throw his arms around her. "Jillian!"

  "Jed, I'm sorry about all this," Jillian sobbed as she nestled into his chest. "I was stupid to let Nigel fool me into coming down here."

  "Jillian, I - " Jed began. Frank had never seen the young star's face look so tender - and he was convinced Jed wasn't calling on his acting ability.

  "That's enough clinching for now," a brisk voice called out. Nigel Hawkins stood at the head of the table. "Please break it up and take your places."

  "You're holding us prisoner, but you're serving us lunch?" Frank stared in disbelief at the elaborate place settings around the large oak table.

  "Why ever not?" Hawkins seated himself. "You'll find that I'm quite a civilized fellow - when people don't annoy me. And dear Jillian can tell you that I'm extremely thoughtful. Jillian, sit at my right, if you would. Mr. Shannon is on your right, with Mr. Hardy opposite him. Limehouse, you'll keep an eye on our guests. And Rowland, you'll sit next to Mr. Hardy."

  Another man came into the dining room. It was the same large, red-faced blond guy who'd pretended to be Ian Fisher-Stone, Jillian's agent. "Such a pleasure to see you again, Hardy," the man said. "How's the head?"

  "Fine, now," Frank told him. "You're a regular artist with a blackjack." The man smiled, and Frank decided to try another question. "Where's the real Fisher-Stone?"

  "In the south of France." Rowland sat down.

  "By choice?"

  "Oh, yes. He chose quite readily. All he needed was a little persuasion - and the wherewithal - and he was most delighted to leave London."

  Hawkins slid his damask napkin out of its silver ring, snapped it to unfurl it, and draped it over his right knee. "Why use violence when a simple bribe will do?" he said to Frank. "Unfortunately, we were informed that you and your brother were above that sort of thing."

  Rowland smiled. "That's why we resorted to scare tactics."

  Frank took his seat. "Once this is all over, what do you intend to do?" he asked. "Shake hands all around and drive off into the sunset?"

  Hawkins picked up a small silver bell and rang it once. "You have the foolish notion that we can't afford to leave any live witnesses behind to identify us. Is that it?"

  "Seems obvious." Frank shrugged. "You've already done something to my brother."

  "I most certainly have not," Hawkins told him haughtily. "Oh, we tried to spirit him off the train last night. But he eluded my man, apparently diving from the train on his own. I have no idea as to his present whereabouts."

  "He also stole one of our cars," Rowland added. "Seems a resourceful young man."

  Frank was relieved that Joe was alive and that he wasn't a prisoner someplace in the castle. That is, if Hawkins was telling the truth. "Okay, so what do you intend to do with us?" Frank asked.

  "After Jillian has done her bit, you'll all be free to go," Hawkins assured him. "I take that back - actually, you'll be chained up in this frightful old castle. After we're safely out of the country, the authorities will be notified to come and claim you."

  "But we can identify you, tell the police who stole the Talbot emeralds."

  Hawkins laughed. "We're never returning to England, dear boy. You'd be surprised at how many countries are friendly to men of means. Warm countries where there's never a wisp of beastly fog or so much as a suggestion of a snowflake."

  "You're giving up your show-business career, Hawkins?" asked Jed, who was sitting next to the young actress, holding her hand.

  "You mean those wretched films I produced?" Hawkins laughed. "Let's face it, the emeralds will gross more than those movies."

  An ancient servant came tottering into the dining room, carrying a large silver tureen of steaming soup. He began ladling it out into the soup plates, starting with Hawkins.

  "People warned me," Jillian said to Jed, her eyes shining with tears. "But I kept on believing Mr. Hawkins was really making a big-budget film with me as the star. I studied Emily Cornwall's life, took photos wearing a black wig. I even made a sample videotape as Emily."

  "She's quite a remarkable actress," Hawkins said as he tasted his soup. "If I planned to stay in the movie business, I truly believe I could make her into a major star."

  "They're going to substitute me for Emily." Jillian lowered her head, not looking Jed in the eye. "I'm to go to the solicitors, pass myself off as her, and collect the jewels."

  "That won't work," Jed objected. 'They won't turn the emeralds over to her."

  Hawkins smiled. "Keep in mind, my boy, that no one has seen little Emily for years. She's been ill, living abroad as something of a hermit."

  "What about fingerprints?" Jed objected.

  "None exist. At least not anywhere her solicitors can get hold of them."

  Jed said triumphantly, "Handwriting."

  "They've made me practice her signature." Jillian rubbed her hand. "She broke some bones in an accident. If anyone asks about the writing, I'm supposed to use that as an excuse. Jed, once I realized what they really had in mind, I told them I wanted no part of it."

  "That's why they kidnapped you, Jed," Frank broke in angrily. "For a little leverage."

  Near the door, Limehouse cleared his throat, swinging his gun toward Jed. "Would be a shame if anything were to happen to him."

  "It would certainly ruin a lot of careful planning," Hawkins said. "Machinery I put together after seeing Jillian in some dreadful play a few weeks ago - what was it?"

  " 'Tis a Pity She Won't Be Woo'd," Frank said.

  "Awful thing. But it introduced me to Ms. Jillian Seabright. I mean there I was, suffering; through that awful play that would have been better left buried in Britain's musty theatrical past. Then I realized this sweet young thing was a near double for Emily Cornwall. Of course, I knew about the emeralds, and that no one had seen Emily for many a moon."

  "We keep extensive files," Rowland explained. "Dear Emily is only one of those people whose fortunes we - ah, monitor."

  "Monitor, then steal," Frank said.

  Hawkins waved a playful finger. "Robbing the rich is an old English sport, Hardy. Started by a chap named Robin Hood. It's much more fun than making second-rate cinema offerings, or - What is it, Walter?"

  A lanky man came pushing into the dining room. "Might be trouble," he said gruffly.

  The teasing smile vanished from Hawkins's face. "Wha
t, exactly?"

  Walter said, "We've been trying to call the Forman woman. She's supposed to be sitting on the Cornwall girl, awaiting word from us."

  "And?"

  "Nobody's answering the phone there." A look of unease passed over the crook's face. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong with the plan."

  Chapter 16

  Joe passed the binoculars to Karen. "That's her on the terrace, all right."

  Karen put the brand-new field glasses to her eyes. "Yes, she's in the wheelchair, all bundled up in plaid blankets."

  "So I'd guess the lady standing next to her must be Miss Forman." Joe and Karen were stretched out in a clump of brush about a quarter of a mile from the rear of the huge, dreary, dark stone Talbot mansion. Swampy fields stretched out all around them, dotted with the occasional leafless tree. Big black crows circled low around the sprawling house, cawing and searching for a meal. "That lump in the fake companion's sweater looks like a gun."

  "Can you be sure at this distance?"

  "It's part keen eyesight," Joe admitted, "and part good guessing."

  "Miss Forman doesn't look much like a companion - more like a barmaid who throws unruly drunks out by herself."

  "We've been ducked down here since she wheeled Emily onto the terrace." Joe reclaimed the binoculars they'd bought in town after they'd stowed the gagged gunman at the end of the alley. "I don't see signs that anyone else is at home."

  "So we're going through with this?"

  "Keep these in your shoulder bag." Joe handed Karen the glasses, took a gray cap out of the pocket of his borrowed raincoat, and pulled it low over his eyes. "I'm taller than the guy who tailed us, but I should be able to pass for him until we're fairly close. Let's roll."

  "I'm doing a lot more performing than reporting lately."

  "Call it participatory journalism," Joe replied.

  Karen stood up, put her hands behind her back, and began walking across the bleak fields toward the mansion.

  Joe followed close behind, his head hanging low and the gun he'd taken showing plainly in his right hand. "Act frightened," he whispered.