High-Speed Showdown Read online

  “If he does, we can try to find out if he was in a position to pull off those other nasty tricks,” Joe pursued. “Even if we don’t succeed, if we ask enough questions, we might make him and his buddies so nervous that they make a mistake and give themselves away.”

  “Uh-oh, we’re forgetting something,” Frank said, glancing at his wrist. “The elimination heats begin in just over an hour. Any witness we might want to talk to is going to be out on the water, watching the races.”

  “Hey, bro, I want to be out there, too!” Joe retorted. “We’d better hurry up and solve this case, so we can enjoy the regatta. What about that call to Claude? We can’t get back in time if we go home now.”

  Frank thought for a moment. “If we use a pay phone, I can’t imagine that the bad guys will have a tap on it. Let’s chance it.”

  They walked along Shore Road to the phone on the corner of Water Street. While Joe scanned the area for possible listeners, Frank put through the call to Las Vegas.

  “Hey, you had it on the nose,” Claude said, after Frank identified himself. “The last couple of days have seen some very heavy action on that boat race you asked me about.”

  “Let me guess,” Frank said. “Somebody’s been betting a lot of money that Carl Newcastle will win. Am I right?”

  Claude chuckled. “You’ve been reading yesterday’s paper, good buddy. That’s when most of the betting was on Newcastle. Today the heavy hitters are swinging for Batten.”

  “What?” Frank stared at the phone in astonishment. “But he practically pulled out of the race this morning. It was on national TV.”

  “I know, I saw it,” Claude replied. “So did the oddsmakers. Yesterday, he was the clear one-to-four favorite. That means if you bet a buck on him and he won, the bookie would pay you one dollar. But if he lost, you’d owe the bookie four bucks. After that broadcast, though, you’d stand to win two dollars for every dollar you bet . . . if he runs and wins.”

  Frank asked, “What happens if you bet on somebody who doesn’t stay in the race?”

  “In that case, you are fresh out of luck, my friend,” Claude replied. “It makes you wonder why somebody would put thousands of smackers on a guy who just told the world he’s splitsville. If you find out the answer, let me know.”

  Frank thanked Claude for his help and hung up. He told Joe what he had learned.

  “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Joe said. “Maybe somebody saw that the odds had changed but didn’t realize why.”

  “One of those ‘suckers born every minute,’ you mean?” Frank replied. “Could be. In any case, we did confirm that somebody put a lot of money on Newcastle, so that part of our theory still holds. Let’s get over to the marina and see if we can find anyone who saw Skip hanging around someplace he shouldn’t have been.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. “But don’t forget, we’ve got to get a move on if we’re going to grab a good spot to watch the races.”

  “No way I’d forget that,” Frank assured his brother. “Come on!”

  • • •

  An hour later Sleuth was anchored just off the buoy-marked channel, about eight miles from Bayport harbor. It was one of a long row of boats loaded with spectators.

  “Too bad there’s no scoreboard,” Joe said, after the last of the two dozen boats roared past. It was the first lap of the first elimination race. “It’s great to see them run, but it’d be even greater if we knew who won.”

  “That was Susan’s boat in the lead,” Frank said. “I didn’t see Adelita or Newcastle’s boat, though. I guess they’ll be running in the, second race.”

  “Here come the others,” Joe said. He grabbed the binoculars and focused them on the speeding boats. “Susan’s still got the lead, but there’s a red boat that’s really pushing her. Number D-103. It’s going wide to pass. . . . ”

  Frank choked off an exclamation. The red boat must have hit Susan’s wake at a bad angle. The bow, already elevated by the boat’s speed, rose higher and higher. It looked as if the boat had decided to turn itself into a rocket. Then the force of the wind caught the hull like a giant sail. In an instant, the boat flipped over.

  “We’ve got to do something!” Joe shouted. “Start the engine! I’ll pull the anchor.”

  Frank grabbed his arm. “No, let the marshals handle it,” he said quickly. “If a bunch of civilians like us run straight into the path of the racers, we’ll have a real disaster.”

  Within minutes the driver and throttleman had been taken on board a marshal’s boat and their damaged boat was being towed away. And a few minutes after that, the racers came screaming by on their second lap. Frank noticed that the line was a lot thinner and more stretched out.

  “Dave wasn’t kidding when he told us how tough this is on the boats,” he remarked. “Barry’s really lucky that he won the time trials and doesn’t have to race today. Now that I’ve seen what these boats go through, I’m surprised any of them make it to the finish line.”

  “I just hope Dennis and Miguel do all right,” Joe replied. “Who knows what kind of hidden damage that fire might have done to the engines.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Frank said.

  • • •

  There was a long intermission after the first heat. Joe hailed a passing check boat and found out that Susan had come in first in Open Class. The other three big boats hadn’t even finished.

  “I guess that means tomorrow’s field is down to five boats,” Frank said when he heard this. “Barry, Susan, the first two in the next heat, and the winner of the consolation heat.”

  “And if Newcastle’s one of them, and Barry really does pull out . . . ” Joe replied.

  “Then Newcastle will have just three rivals to deal with,” Frank said, finishing the thought. “If you ask me, they’re going to need protection.”

  Finally the second heat started. When the pack came into sight, Adelita was several lengths ahead of Newcastle’s dark green boat. Dennis kept his lead on the return leg and throughout the second lap. Frank found himself crossing his fingers and hoping that nothing broke.

  Maybe the spell worked. On the last lap, the two lead boats still held the same positions, roaring down the return leg at what looked like easily 120 miles per hour. Frank didn’t see the other two Open Class competitors at all.

  “Do you want to stay and watch the consolation heat?” Joe asked. “Or should we get back to work?”

  Frank grinned at him. “This was work,” he retorted. “Even if it was fun at the same time. But I guess we’d better go in.”

  The return to Bayport was slow, because there were so many boats out on the water. The harbor itself, and the marina, were practically deserted. Finally, Frank nosed Sleuth into their slip. Joe took the bowline and stepped up onto the dock. He was slipping the loop over a bollard when Frank saw a hulking figure jump up from behind a storage shed and run at him. He was wearing a mask and held a baseball bat up over his shoulder.

  Frank opened his mouth to shout a warning. At that instant, he felt Sleuth rock under a sudden weight. He spun around. A second man, in camouflage overalls and a ski mask, was crouched in the stern of the boat. He raised his baseball bat in his right hand and took a menacing step toward Frank.

  14 Newcastle Checkmate

  * * *

  Joe sensed a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and heard the sound of rushing steps. He turned just in time to see a bat hurtling toward his head. He threw himself forward and to the right. The bat hit his shoulder a glancing blow. His left arm went numb and hung useless at his side. He walled off the glaring pain in a far corner of his mind and concentrated on his first priority, fighting and defeating his attacker.

  Dropping into a half crouch, Joe charged forward, head down, and butted the other guy in the stomach. The guy let out a whoosh! and bent double. Instantly, Joe used his powerful thigh muscles to propel himself upward, slamming the top of his head into his opponent’s chin. The masked man reeled back, but reco
vered. He grabbed Joe’s shirtfront and tried to knee him in the face.

  Joe dodged to the left and took the force of the guy’s knee on his good shoulder. Then he aimed a punch at the side of his opponent’s throat. The guy managed to block the attack with his forearm, but to do so, he had to let go of the bat. Joe grabbed it in midair.

  “Okay, turkey,” Joe growled. “My inning!” One-handed, he made a backhand swing in the direction of his attacker’s knees. With a yelp of fear, the guy stumbled backward a few steps. Then he turned and ran.

  Joe turned, too, but in the other direction, back toward Sleuth. Frank was crouched near the stern, grappling with the other masked man. The boat rocked wildly from side to side.

  Just as Joe ran down the dock to join the battle, Frank’s attacker managed to work his right arm free. He raised his baseball bat, preparing to club Frank across the back of the head. Without thinking, Joe lifted the bat he had wrested from the other thug and threw it, spear fashion. As it left his hand, he had a sudden fear that he would hit Frank. But the bat flew true, hitting Frank’s opponent in the ribs, just under his upraised arm. He staggered back. Sleuth rocked so far to port that water sloshed in. Off balance, the thug tumbled backward into the water. He kept his hold on Frank’s arm, though, dragging him in, too.

  Pausing just long enough to slip out of his shoes, Joe made a racing dive into the harbor. When he surfaced and looked around, Frank was treading water a few feet away. His attacker was climbing up onto the dock on the far side of the next slip. The moment he got to his feet, he broke into a run. The battle was obviously over.

  “We should take the boat back out,” Frank said. “Those goons might be going for reinforcements.”

  They climbed in and motored out into the bay. “Let’s tie up at one of the temporary berths on the other side of the marina,” Frank suggested. “No one will expect us there.”

  Joe scanned the docks as they passed. Then he happened to glance down at the deck. His eyes widened. He bent down and fished something from under the seat.

  “Frank! Look at this!” he exclaimed.

  Joe was holding a brown leather wallet. He opened it and whistled. “A bunch of brand-new fifty-dollar bills,” he reported. “Eight . . . nine . . . ten of them. And a Newcastle Trucking ID card in the name of Ralph Waldvogel, who looks an awful lot like our pal, Skip. Frank, this is the proof we needed against Newcastle! We’d better find Magnusson, fast, and tell him what we know!”

  • • •

  Gerald Magnusson was at the inn, attending a reception for the racers. When Joe and Frank walked in, both dripping wet, he spotted them at once and hurried over.

  “We need to talk, right away,” Frank told him.

  “All right, let’s go to my office,” Magnusson replied.

  Once in the office, Magnusson listened gravely as the Hardys explained why they thought that Carl Newcastle was behind the sabotage campaign. Then Joe showed him the wallet and told him where he had found it.

  “It’s hard to believe,” Magnusson said, slowly shaking his head. “Oh, you’ve convinced me. But if someone had told me a week ago that one of our competitors would do such a cowardly thing . . . ”

  Magnusson picked up the phone and asked the inn desk to page Newcastle. After a short pause, he said, “Carl, may I see you, right away? It’s important. Of course I’m sure.” He replaced the receiver and sat back with his shoulders squared, looking like someone facing a task he disliked.

  “You need to see me?” Newcastle said from the doorway. “What’s the problem?”

  “Come in and close the door, Carl,” Magnusson said. “I’ve just heard some very disturbing allegations about you.”

  Newcastle narrowed his eyes and aimed them at Joe and Frank. “What have these kids been saying about me?” he demanded.

  Joe stepped forward. “We found out that your mechanic, Skip Waldvogel, and another one of your employees have been pulling dirty tricks on your rivals,” he said.

  Frank then listed what he believed Newcastle’s goons had messed with: the fuel line on the Adelita, the throttle cable on the Sleuth, the firecracker in the van, the missing buoy. “And we were just attacked by two of your men with baseball bats,” Frank continued. “We have proof,” he added.

  Newcastle didn’t ask what proof. After a short silence, he said, “If one of my employees went a little too far in trying to help me win, I’m sorry. But it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Carl. That’s not good enough,” Magnusson said. “It would be wise for you to withdraw from tomorrow’s race . . . a mechanical problem with your boat, perhaps.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Newcastle said, raising his voice.

  Magnusson held up his hand. “The alternative is to bring this whole business before the race committee,” he said. “I’d prefer to avoid that kind of publicity, wouldn’t you? And there’s an excellent chance that you’d be barred from offshore racing for good. Do you want to take that risk?”

  In the tense silence, Joe saw the muscle in Newcastle’s jaw start to twitch. Then the trucking executive slammed his hand down on Magnusson’s desk. “Okay, I withdraw,” he said. “But you and your boy detectives better listen to this. Anybody who says publicly that I did anything crooked had better know a good lawyer . . . and a good doctor!”

  He stared at Joe and Frank, as if memorizing their faces. Then he stormed out of the room.

  Magnusson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well,” he said. “That’s that. Frank, Joe—you’ve earned my congratulations and thanks.”

  “Actually, the case isn’t tied up just yet,” Frank said. “We still don’t know for certain who sent you the fax of the leaflet. The same goes for the leaflet with the threatening message that we found in Dennis’s file. I can’t come up with any motive for Newcastle to threaten you or Dennis with the leaflet. Connie could be responsible for that, of course, but we don’t know for sure. Plus, we don’t know who poisoned Chuck, or if it was intentional at all.”

  “Don’t forget Barry’s medallion is still missing,” Joe added.

  “Right,” Frank said. “And there’s nothing to tie Newcastle to the theft.”

  “Ah, yes, the medallion,” Magnusson said. “Well, after seeing the splendid detective work you did today, I wouldn’t be surprised if you manage to turn up the medallion as well. I’d better get back to the reception. You’ll join me, won’t you?”

  • • •

  It was dinnertime when Joe and Frank finally left the inn and drove home. Their mother was in the front hallway, on the phone. Joe heard her say, “Oh, they just walked in. Do you want to say hello? Hold on.”

  She passed the phone to Joe, who was closer. He said hello and heard his father’s voice say, “How are you getting along with that boating case?”

  “Pretty well, Dad,” Joe replied. “I think we’ve got it close to wrapped up.”

  “Great,” Fenton said. “I’ll want to hear all about it when I get home. Oh, give Magnusson a big hello from Steve Griffin.”

  “Your client?” Joe asked. “They know each other?”

  “Oh, sure. They go way back,” Fenton replied. “Steve was surprised that Magnusson had tried to get me to take this case you’re on. Apparently Steve mentioned to Magnusson just a couple of weeks ago that I was coming out to the West Coast to give him a hand. I guess my name stuck in Magnusson’s mind and the facts that went with it didn’t. Oops—there’s Steve at the door now. Talk to you later.”

  • • •

  The next morning Frank was heating the waffle iron and Joe was stirring batter when the phone rang. Frank grabbed it and said hello.

  A gruff voice said, “You want to break this case wide open? Keep a close watch on the Fernandez girl.”

  “Who is this?” Frank demanded. There was silence, then a dial tone.

  Frank repeated the message to Joe.

  “I think we already saw this show,” Joe said. “What now? We rush out to the v
an, drive off, and find out that somebody cut the brake line?”

  Frank grinned. “Nope. We have a nice, hot breakfast. We give the van a nice, thorough check. Then we go park down the street from Connie’s house for a nice, peaceful stakeout.”

  “There goes our morning,” Joe grumbled.

  Half an hour later, as they circled Connie’s block looking for a parking space, Joe was still grumbling. “I’ll bet we sit here for an hour or two and nothing happens,” he said.

  “You lose,” Frank replied, sliding down in his seat. “There’s Connie backing out now. Don’t get close enough for her to spot us.”

  “Are you trying to teach me how to do my job?” Joe groused. He let Connie get all the way to the corner before he put the van in motion again.

  Connie didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The slow-motion pursuit led across town to a seedy strip shopping center. Joe parked at the far end of the lot, then he and Frank followed Connie at a distance. She approached a row of shabby offices, most of them vacant. After opening a glass door, Connie walked down a hall, checking the signs on the doors, then stopped and tried the knob of one. The door swung open, and she went inside.

  “Come on,” Frank said urgently. He broke into a run. Joe was right behind him. They burst through the open doorway and stopped short.

  The only furniture in the room was a big, battered cardboard carton. Connie was standing next to it, looking over at the Hardys in alarm. On top of the carton were a few scattered Earthquest leaflets.

  Frank was beginning to think that Joe was right, and that their morning stakeout had been a bust. But then he saw something that made him inhale sharply and grab Joe’s sleeve—an intricately carved ivory medallion on a gold chain.

  15 And They’re Off!

  * * *

  “Congratulations,” Connie said bitterly. “You caught me red-handed.”

  “It sure looks that way,” Frank said.