Final Cut (10 page)

Above him he heard Freed's voice again. "Women are nothing but trouble, punk. See what happens to you when you fall for a dame?"

Joe was hauled to his feet, and a blindfold was wrapped over his eyes. He and Addison were marched through the clearing. Joe felt a gun barrel poking into his back. He realized that there was at least one other person with Freed. Who could it be? Certainly not Andrea Stuart. "Let's get out of here," Freed growled.

Joe heard the tailgate of a truck being let down, and then he and Addison were roughly thrown into the truck bed. Both cab doors opened and closed. The truck lurched into motion and started back down the hill.

For a long moment Freed's automatic hovered an inch above Frank's head. Then Freed relaxed. "You take some dumb chances," he said. "The only reason you aren't dead right now is I want to be able to snuff you and your brother at the same time."

Frank and Callie were tied and blindfolded and dumped in the back of Frank's rental car. Freed got in front. Before they pulled out, Frank heard another engine start up. I'll bet gangster number two is driving a pickup with no plates, Frank thought.

After ten minutes the car stopped and Frank and Callie were hauled out and marched across some pavement. Then they were pushed farther, into a building this time. Finally their blindfolds were removed.

Frank looked around. They were in a large, high-ceilinged, old brick building. Probably an abandoned factory, he thought. The rumbling sound they had heard was made by a heavy metal door rolling back as they entered. He could just make out heavy steel moorings to which machines had been attached. Dirty windows high in the walls allowed a little moonlight inside, and a few dangling, unshaded bulbs shed weak light.

A section of the vast room directly across from the huge door was better lit than the rest, and Freed took Frank and Callie there. As they walked, Frank noted that the windows were too high to offer any chance of escape. He couldn't spot any other doors in the gloom.

As they neared the opposite wall, Frank saw that a couple of portable electric lamps had been lit there. Huge rings set into the walls to anchor machinery had been fitted with chains, leg irons, and handcuffs. Three such setups were already occupied, by Addison, Trish, and Joe.

"Is everyone okay?" whispered Frank.

All three nodded.

"Hey! Get over here and make yourself useful!" barked Freed at his accomplice, who had been hanging back in the darkness. "Get these two chained up!"

The dim figure who had been with Freed now stepped into the brighter light.

It was Vic Ritchey, the standin.

Under Freed's guard, he quickly shackled Frank's and Callie's legs. But he ignored the handcuffs, leaving their arms tied with rope. He stepped back to survey the scene with a satisfied smile. Then he stepped forward to where Jim Addison sat on the ground. Bending down, Ritchey delivered a stinging slap to the actor's face.

It was clear to Joe and Frank that Addison was shaken, but the actor kept quiet. Next to Joe, Trish gasped. Callie stared at Ritchey, horrified by his maniacal glare.

Ritchey was fixed on Jim Addison. He began to speak softly.

"Eighteen years now, I've been your standin. Never getting a chance to act. Never allowed to have my own career, my own shot. Never getting the big money. All thanks to you. Eighteen years, and I've hated you every minute."

Frank looked from Addison's shocked face to Ritchey's. His eyes were burning with a crazy light. Carefully, quietly, he began to move his hands behind him, trying to loosen the ropes.

"Vic," Jim said at last, "I saw to it that you had a job wherever and whenever I did. I didn't hold you down, Vic. You'd never have been able to make a success as an actor, you - "

Ritchey cut Addison off with another slap. A thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of Jim's mouth. He said nothing more.

Frank suddenly said, "Now I understand!"

"Understand what, Frank?" asked Trish.

"Joe, don't you get it?" Frank went on. "Don't you see how the eyewitness swore that he had seen Jim threatening Fairburn?"

"Of course!" Joe said. He looked disgusted. "How come we didn't catch on sooner? I mean, even we mistook Ritchey for Addison from twenty yards away. That's why he was Jim's standin."

"Right," Frank agreed. "Same build, similar features ..."

Ritchey's laugh echoed in the room.

"That's right, smart boys. It was me that guy saw with Fairburn. I made sure that someone was near enough to see when I picked a quarrel with Fairburn. I saw to it that he got a real good look at us before Freed took Fairburn away to finish him off."

"You ought to watch your mouth," growled Freed. "You'll run it too much someday."

But Ritchey didn't seem to hear, or care. He stooped down. Now his face was only inches away from Addison's.

"I'm getting a lot of money for this, big shot," he sneered. "But you know what? I would have done it all just for the chance to have you where I can tell you what I really think of you, where I can give you what you deserve."

Ritchey stuck his gun in Addison's face, and for an instant Joe was certain he would shoot the actor right then. But Freed yanked Ritchey away. "That's enough for now," he ordered. "You keep popping off and you won't live to spend that money you're talking about."

Ritchey shrank back from Freed's flat, cold stare, looking pale and nervous.

Frank's wrists felt raw and scraped, but he also felt that his knots had loosened just a fraction.

Joe turned to Freed and said, "That answers some questions about this racket, but there's still the big one: who's paying Ritchey? Who's paying you? Who's running this show?"

"You'll find out soon enough, punk," Freed said with an ugly grin. "Too bad you won't be around to tell anybody else."

"I believe that I'm the one you're looking for," said a voice disembodied by the surrounding darkness. Footsteps echoed, coming closer. Frank strained to make out the figure just walking into the light.

"Well, what do you know!" Joe exclaimed.

"I don't understand," Callie said.

Frank looked at her and said, "Callie, meet Mr. J. F. Graham."

For Frank and Joe, the last piece of the puzzle had now fallen into place. They also knew that their time was short. Frank decided they might gain more time by getting Graham involved in a conversation. He continued to flex his wrists and work the knots loose as he talked.

"Tell me, Mr. Graham, did you live in Boston once upon a time?" asked Frank.

"And did you go by the name of Gallagher?" asked Joe, picking up the thread of his brother's idea.

Graham smiled at the Hardys. "Clever boys. I figured that you'd get to the bottom of things sooner or later - unless we stopped somehow.

"Yes, I'm the Gallagher that Fairburn wrote about. We did quite well, that old gang of mine - until we were busted."

"And Fairburn knew you?" asked Joe.

Graham nodded. "We were partners. He was greedy, always in debt. He'd get info as a reporter that I could use in planning heists. Fairburn got a cut."

"But you got caught," prompted Frank.

"Not me," Graham went on. "I gave the police the slip. I came to Bayport twenty-five years ago with the money I'd put aside. I took the name Graham and set myself up as a businessman, strictly legit. I even became a community leader.

"Then I got involved with this studio business." Graham scowled. "And I met the writer of Bayport Studio's first project, 'Thieves' Bargain.' "

"And he recognized you," said Joe.

"Yes, and I recognized him." Graham shook his head. "Fairburn was still greedy. He saw a chance for some blackmail. He showed me the new script he'd written. It was the story of the old Gallagher gang, thinly disguised, with the names changed of course.

"He said that unless he was paid well, he would see to it that the press knew who I was. I knew he'd never leave me alone. He had to be eliminated," Graham finished simply.

"How did you work it for Freed to get hired on the movie?" asked Frank.