Final Cut (7 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
It seemed empty and very dim. Only a few bare bulbs set high up near the ceiling gave any light. The enormous space was silent, eerie. Quietly they steppped all the way in, easing the door closed behind them. They stood motionless, listening hard, but heard nothing.
"He's got to be in here somewhere," Frank said, "but we'll never find him in the dark."
"There's a switch box over by the front doors." Trish's voice echoed three times in the empty space. "I can light up the whole place." She started toward the switch box, which was on another wall.
As Joe stood rooted to his spot, waiting for more light, he heard a creaking and then a metallic clink from somewhere high above him. Looking up, he watched spellbound as a huge object started falling through the gloom. Trish was right under it!
Joe dove forward and tackled Trish just as something large and heavy hit the concrete floor with an explosion of glass and metal that sent thousands of tiny shards whirling.
"Cover your faces." Joe spoke into his arm, and his voice was muffled.
A powerful floodlight lay a few feet from them. It would have crushed anyone standing under it.
Now they heard mocking laughter overhead.
"He's up on the catwalks!" yelled Joe, brushing off the bits of glass that clung to his arms.
Frank called back, "I'm going up after him!"
Joe turned to Trish. "How do you feel?"
She took a shaky breath, but her eyes were steady when she looked at him. "If you hadn't shoved me, I'd be ... I would have ... " She couldn't bring herself to finish.
"For what it's worth," said Joe, "I think Freed probably thought it was Frank or me under him."
Trish shook her head. "I have to stop hanging around with you guys. But I'm okay, I think. Let me get those lights on."
A moment later the entire building was brightly lit. Joe saw Frank halfway up a metal ladder bolted to the wall. Directly above him at the top of the ladder stood Freed. He had a long wrench ready to throw.
"Frank! Above you!" shouted Joe.
As Freed flung the heavy tool, Frank swung out and away from the ladder, pivoting on one hand. The wrench dropped past him and clattered to the floor.
The catwalks were made of wooden planks, about four feet across, set on steel frames. They were arranged in a grid covering the whole floorspace of the soundstage, so that lights could be hung and focused on any spot below.
As Frank reached the top of the ladder, Joe was scrambling up to join him. Meanwhile, Freed ran along a catwalk, away from the Hardys.
"We have him cornered!" Joe said.
"Wrong!" snapped Frank, pointing across to the opposite corner, where another ladder was bolted to the wall. "Let's box him in. I'll cut across, and you chase him down."
The brothers raced in different directions. Joe's speed made him a dangerous receiver of deep passes during football season. Now he closed on Freed, who was alarmed to see Joe on his heels. Realizing he wouldn't be able to reach the ladder before Joe caught him, he turned onto one of the catwalks that led out over the middle of the floor.
But the Hardys were faster and in better shape. Frank quickly shifted to cut the gaffer off, and Joe raced after him in pursuit. Seconds later Freed found himself standing, his back against the catwalk's guardrail, with Frank on one side and Joe on the other.
Freed turned toward Joe and feigned a move in that direction, freezing Joe momentarily. Then he whipped around and ran full speed at Frank, ramming him hard with a shoulder. Frank was knocked against the rail, out of breath, and Freed tried to get by toward the ladder, but Frank dove and just caught Freed by the ankle, sending the thug sprawling on the planks.
Both were quickly on their feet, facing each other. Frank lashed out with a right cross. He hit Freed high on the cheekbone, backing him up a step. But Freed closed with him. He placed a foot behind Frank's ankle and tripped him up. Frank landed hard on the catwalk.
Instantly Freed was on Frank, shoving at him and rolling him. He was going to push him off the planks and down to the concrete forty feet below! Frank felt himself sliding toward the edge with nothing to grab on to.
But Joe came in behind Freed and got in a kick behind the knee. Freed's leg buckled and he lost his balance. Frank scrambled away.
Just as Joe was about to lunge forward, Freed pulled out a long and deadly-looking switchblade knife. Both brothers had to retreat just out of Freed's reach. He turned from Frank to Joe, stabbing out with the gleaming blade. Suddenly Joe darted forward, making the thug lunge. Joe then dove low for Freed's legs while at the same instant Frank hit him chest-high from the other side.
The knife went pinwheeling into the air, and Freed hit the deck with Frank on top of him. Cursing under his breath, Freed bucked Frank off and lunged at Joe, who had regained his feet.
"Not this time, Sam," Joe said, stepping out of reach and driving his knee up and into Freed's jaw. The thug collapsed and lay still.
Panting, the brothers grinned at each other. "The coach would be proud of us," said Frank.
"I knew all those scrimmages would come in handy someday," Joe replied. Then he yelled down, "Trish! Find a phone and call the police."
***
That evening after dinner Frank and Joe sat with their father in his office. They leafed through photocopies of Fairburn's old newspaper stories.
Before settling down to this chore, the three had exchanged their information. The brothers had told Fenton about their day, ending with the Bayport police hauling off Sam Freed.
"The fact that someone wants us out of the way seems to put Jim Addison in the clear," Frank observed. "That's what we told Chief Collig."
"But he said that there was nothing to tie Freed to Fairburn's murder," Joe added. "So he was treating it as a separate incident."
"Well," said Frank thoughtfully, "he may have a point. I mean, we've turned up a lot of people who hated Fairburn, but there's no history that we can find between him and Freed."
"What did you hear about Fairburn's past from your buddy in Boston?" asked Joe.
Fenton pulled a piece of paper out of an envelope. "You can read this over later if you like, but here's the gist of it: Fairburn had a reputation back then as a heavy gambler who was always in debt, always borrowing from the other reporters. He was too friendly with some of the criminals that he wrote about, in the opinion of the other police-beat writers."
"Not exactly a model citizen," said Joe.
The three Hardys continued to look through the file of stories. Suddenly Joe stopped and said, "Take a look at these." He gave his brother a handful of clippings.
Frank checked them over. "They're about a gang that pulled off a string of big heists twenty-five years ago," he said to Fenton. "Apparently when they broke up the gang, they never caught the brains of the outfit. The stories identified him only as 'Grallagher.' "
Frank tossed the copies on the desk. "These stories read just like the plot of 'Thieves' Bargain,' " he said. "Exactly like it. There's no way it can be a coincidence."
Joe added, "And this Gallagher is just like Jim Addison's character. The mastermind."
Fenton picked up the stories. "Well, I suppose it figures that an ex-crime reporter would turn to his own old material for a TV script," he said.
"Yeah," said Frank, "but Jim said that when he was first told about the TV pilot, it was completely different from this. Then, when Jim got the script, he saw that Fairburn had changed it. Why?"
Joe shrugged. "Maybe he just thought it was a better story than the other one."
Frank shook his head. "You don't rewrite a script completely just before shooting. It wasn't just a little bit here and there, it was a total rewrite, and that - "
The phone rang and Fenton answered.
"Hello? ... Oh, hello, Con ... Yes. What? ... When? ... I'm going to put you on the speakerphone so you can tell Frank and Joe yourself. Just a moment."
Fenton put down the receiver and punched a button. "It's Con Riley. Okay, Con, go ahead."
The policeman's voice sounded strained. "Hi, Frank, Joe. I've got some bad news for you."
"What's up, Con?" asked Frank.
"Sam Freed was being taken for mug shots and fingerprints, and I don't know how it happened, but he somehow managed to overpower his guards and get away. We haven't been able to find him."
"When was this?" asked Joe.
"A half hour ago," Con replied. "We've got an all-points bulletin out on him, and we're combing the city. I figured you ought to know."
Frank's lips were pressed into a thin line. "Well, thanks for the word, Con," he said. "You'll be sure to keep us posted, right?"
"You can count on it," said the tinny voice over the speaker. "And, Frank? Joe? Stay on your toes. This guy is one mean customer. He really has it in for you two. He put two cops in the hospital, and the last thing they heard him say was that he was going to kill those two Hardy brothers!"
After Con Riley's call, Frank and Joe waited for their father's reaction. He said, "I guess I don't have to tell you two to watch yourselves until this guy is found."
"We'll be careful," Frank assured him. "But we still have a job to do."
"Right," agreed Joe. "Anyway, tomorrow we'll be working in a huge crowd all day. Freed isn't going to pop up there. I mean, he may be a hood, but he isn't crazy."
***
The next day the crew and cast were set up in downtown Bayport, on a block that had been cleared of traffic for the day. Freed was nowhere around.
"Nobody seems to miss him much," said Joe.
"A nice, friendly guy like that?" cracked Frank. "I can't imagine why."
The scene being shot was a gun battle between the gang and the police. At the end of the battle the gang would be captured, except for the character played by Jim Addison, who'd escape.
Frank and Joe had walkie-talkies. They were stationed on a sidewalk just off camera. They had to keep any passersby or curious onlookers from wandering into a shot. Hector Ellerby had actually spent a whole minute with them giving them instructions.
"Remember, guys, this kind of scene, with a lot of extras and guns and stunts and cars and fightings, costs a bundle of money. And if we have to reshoot any of it because some civilian gets in front of the camera, then it'll cost two bundles. "So watch the walkers and gawkers, and don't fall asleep, okay? I'm counting on you guys."
"We'll stay awake," Frank replied.
"You can trust us," said Joe.
There had been no further word from the Bayport police about Sam Freed. He was still at large. But neither of the Hardys was especially worried about his showing up on location.
"Maybe he's left town," Joe suggested hopefully but not really believing it.
Before any actual shooting, there were several rehearsals. Police cars raced up, cops spilled out, and heavy gunfire erupted between cops and robbers.
Everything had to be organized to the last detail among a hundred performers, three cameras in various locations, and all the other crews.
During breaks between rehearsals, Frank and Joe met the special-effects wizard, Max. He was a leathery older man in a baseball cap and sat at a big electronic console, where he could set off the small charges that looked like bullets striking targets by remote control.
The Hardys listened as Headcase explained how the actors were supposed to be "shot." They had very light explosive charges taped to their bodies, which were protected by thin protective shields. In some cases, in close-ups, there would also be plastic bags of stage blood designed to burst when the actor was "hit." Other charges had been fastened to walls, to look like bullets smashing into the walls when they were set off by the man at the console.
The special-effects wizard would control all this. But everything had to be carefully planned and gone over again and again, to reduce the possibility of expensive retakes. Ideally scenes like this were shot only once.
Frank and Joe found it all as interesting as did the "civilians," what the crew called everyone not involved in their line of work.
They watched everything from just out of camera range, on the nearby sidewalks.
"Where's Jim Addison?" Joe asked Jerry Morrall at one point.
"Oh, he's not here yet. On a long shot like this, where you can't really see his face, Vic Ritchey can do just as well. Better, maybe."
"How come?" Joe wondered.
Morrall gave one of his ironic smiles. "Well, Ritchey is younger and a little more athletic than Addison, so Addison generally lets Vic do the running around whenever he can. Ritchey really can look amazingly like Jim. Also, it's pretty dull and time-consuming, so Jim would just as soon sit it out." Morrall winked at Joe. "You know what they say, rank has its privileges. First we shoot the whole scene from a distance. What we call the 'master.' And then we start working on reverse angles, point-of- view shots, and close-ups - then Jim'll go to work."
After still more rehearsal, Addison did appear, hopping out of a limo and vanishing into his dressing room trailer. During a break the brothers went to see him and told the actor about Fairburn's old newspaper stories.
"What do you make of it, Jim?" Frank asked. "Does it give you any ideas?"
Addison shook his head - it meant nothing to him. He was too concerned about the scene he had to do to think about anything else.
"Could one of you stick around and go over my lines with me? I'd sure appreciate it."
Just at that moment the Hardys' walkie-talkies crackled, and Trish's voice sounded.
"Frank, Joe, we're about to shoot. Better get to your stations."
"Roger, we copy," said Joe into his mouthpiece. "Sorry, Jim, but we have to hold back the crowds of your admiring fans."
"My fans, huh?" Addison grinned. "Not very likely. But I'll bet you that there's a whole regiment of Preston Lawrence fans there. That's what you get when you play he-men and heroes."
On location Ivan Kandinsky gave his star last-minute instructions. Lawrence listened intently, nodding every few seconds. Then he got into a car and drove off out of camera range.
Kandinsky gave the thumbs-up signal to Hector Ellerby, who had picked up a bullhorn.
"Can I have your attention, everyone? We're about to shoot a very tricky scene, so I want you all to be alert. You people watching over there, please help us out. We're happy to let you watch, but you have to keep absolutely silent while we're doing this and stay where you are. If we have to retake this master shot, it'll be hours before we can get it all ready to go again. Thank you for your cooperation." He put down the bullhorn and picked up his walkie-talkie.
"Cameras ready? Sound? Special effects?" One by one, he checked in with each department and got an okay. Then he picked up the bullhorn.
"Drivers, start the cars! Wait for my signal to move! Lights!"
A battery of floodlights turned what was a bright day even brighter.
"Camera!"
Three cameras began to roll.
"Slate the scene!"
Three assistant camera people ran in front of their cameras carrying slates with the scene number chalked on them and hinged sticks, called clappers, on top. Each assistant held his slate in front of the lens, read off the scene number, clapped the clappers, then ran out of camera range.
"And - action! Go ahead, drivers!" yelled Ellerby.
Half a dozen squad cars came screaming around the corner into the shot, sirens wailing and red lights flashing, and squealed to a stop. Twenty-five actors and extras in police uniforms piled out of the cars and spread out behind them. A window in the building they were facing was shattered, and a gunshot was fired from inside. Then a burst of gunfire crackled as the "cops" and the actors playing the gang, holed up in a building nearby, blazed away at one another with blanks. One bad guy yelped, clutched his chest, and fell halfway out of a window.
Preston Lawrence gave orders and gestured with his hands. Some of the actor/police started charging the building. There was a louder burst of gunfire. Another villain was hit, screamed, and fell all the way out of a window, landing on a thin pad below that was carefully placed just out of camera range. One of the policemen grabbed his shoulder, and fake blood dripped from between his fingers.
Frank and Joe watched the crowd from their stations with one eye but followed the scene with fascination. Joe thought that it went like some kind of super-complex football play, brilliantly run. Frank thought of a really involved chess game.
Since it was obvious that the spectators weren't trying to get too close to the action, the brothers gave more and more of their attention to the action before the cameras.
Joe was so caught up in what he was seeing, he hardly noticed when one shot sounded different from the others. It was sharper, a little louder. Then a chip of the stone from a wall near his head flew off with a whining noise.
Joe looked around but saw nothing unusual. He picked up his walkie-talkie and whispered into it, "Frank. Frank. Do you read me?"
Frank was a few yards away, and whispered into his own transmitter, "I read you, Joe, what's - "
Suddenly another loud shot hit home above his head. Before he could duck, a bit of stonework flew, scratching Frank's cheek. He put a hand to his face, and it came away with a smear of blood on it.
He said urgently to his brother, "Joe, take cover right now. Someone's using the noise of the fake gunfire to snipe at us, and he isn't using blanks!"