High-Speed Showdown (11 page)

“Do the police have any leads?” the interviewer asked.

Barry shrugged. “I haven't been to the police,” he said. “And as long as I get my medallion back, I'm not planning to press charges. Maybe this is just a very bad joke somebody played on me. I hope so.”

Dave was in front of Frank. Frank tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Is this live?”

Dave looked at him blankly. Joe realized that he must be in shock, watching his big break going down the drain. When Frank repeated his question, Dave shook his head as if to clear it, then said, “Yeah, I guess so. I don't know.”

He turned back to watch the interview. Frank took Joe's elbow and urged him toward the stairs.
When they reached the second floor, Frank said in an undertone, “Barry's room should be empty. Let's try that door.”

They hurried to the end of the corridor, and Frank rapped softly on the door, then listened intently. “Not a peep,” he reported. He reached for his wallet and took out a gas company credit card. Inserting it into the crack between the door and the jamb, he slowly slid it upward until it hit the latch. Joe stopped watching at that point and scanned the corridor. After a long, agonizing moment, he heard a faint click. He turned, just as Frank, grinning, pushed the door open.

“So much for security,” Frank murmured, as he pulled the door closed again. “Anybody who had access to the inn could have taken the medallion.”

Joe said, “We've been working on the idea that somebody is trying to wreck the races. But what if Barry was the real target all along? He was the favorite to win, after all. Maybe one of the other racers decided to improve his or her chances by getting Barry out of the race.”

“They couldn't know that he'd drop out like that,” Frank pointed out. “But it was a cinch that losing his lucky charm would upset him. Maybe you've got a point, Joe. Let's check our answering machine. Maybe somebody's phoned in a tip.”

They walked out to the van. Joe dialed their home phone and waited for the machine to pick up. Then he punched in the access code and
playback command. Frank passed him a pad and pen.

“Only one message,” Joe reported, a couple of minutes later. “It was from Claude, Dad's friend in Vegas. He wants us to call back.”

“Hmm . . . that's a pretty sensitive business,” Frank said. “I'd rather not call him from the cellular phone, in case someone eavesdrops. Let's go by the house to call him back.”

“Okay,” Joe replied. “But don't expect me to find such a choice spot to park when we come back.”

He reached for the ignition key and turned it. But instead of the sound of the starter motor, he heard a long, high-pitched whistle. Joe knew instinctively that that was the sound of something deadly coming from under the hood.

13 A Booming Case

For one second Joe was too astonished to react. Then he grabbed the door handle, flung the door open, and leaped out. He hit the ground running. The muffled explosion came just as he threw himself to the pavement behind the car in the next slot.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked around. Frank was sprawled on the grass a dozen feet away. He looked dazed but okay. The van seemed okay, too, except for the dense white smoke billowing out from the engine compartment.

Joe stood up. Frank was on his feet now, too, bending over to brush the grass off his jeans. He looked furious.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

“I banged my elbow, jumping out of the van,” Joe reported. “Other than that, I'm fine. But I'd like to know the name of the joker who wired that firework to our ignition. I'd like a few minutes alone with him, too.”

“I've got dibs on him after you,” Frank said. He went around to the driver's side door, reached in, and pulled the hood release. He lifted the hood, then backed away and turned his head to avoid the fumes. It smelled like the Fourth of July.

Joe, next to him, pointed toward the distributor. “There it is,” he said.

Wires led from the distributor to a red cardboard tube about six inches long. The black letters on the side read Screamin' Meemie—Harmless Thrills.

“Right, I'm thrilled,” Frank remarked. “But look at it this way. It could just as easily have been a real bomb. Somebody wanted to send us a message.”

“Yeah, and it reads ‘butt out,'” Joe said. “No signature, though. Well, I'd better see about getting rid of this gizmo.”

While Joe went to get the tool kit, Frank straightened up and looked around. On the other side of the parking lot, a groundskeeper had stopped his riding mower to stare. Frank walked over to him and said, “Hi there.”

The groundskeeper nodded and said, “Your van
okay? For a minute there, I thought it was a real bomb. Some people have a pretty strange sense of humor.”

“I don't think there's any damage,” Frank told him. “I wouldn't mind knowing who did it, though. You didn't notice anyone hanging around there, did you?”

The man scratched his bristly chin. “Not exactly, not to recognize,” he replied slowly. “But I did notice a tow truck double-parked right in front of your van. That was about an hour ago. I figured somebody had car trouble, but then the truck pulled out without anybody in tow.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?” Frank asked eagerly. “You didn't see him fiddling with the hood of the van, did you?”

“Nope. The truck blocked my view,” the groundskeeper told him.

“How about the truck itself?” Frank continued. “Did you notice a company name on it?”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, no. Must have been private. It was dark green, if that's any help.”

Newcastle! Frank realized with a jolt. His boat was dark green, and so were his employees' uniforms. It would have to be checked, but Frank was ready to bet that the tow trucks for Newcastle's trucking company were dark green, too. He felt his jaw tighten, as he remembered the run-in he and Joe had had with Newcastle's mechanic, Skip. Had Skip put the firework in the van as a way of
getting back at the Hardys? Or was there more to it than that? This clearly called for a conference.

“Thanks,” Frank said, and hurried back to tell Joe what he had learned.

Joe saw the possibilities as quickly as Frank had. “How's this?” Joe said. “Newcastle's the one I heard making that big bet last night on the phone. But he wants to make absolutely sure he wins. So this guy Skip has been doing a number on some of the other boats. He's the one who jiggered the oil seal on Barry's boat the other day and loosened the fuel line on
Adelita.”

“And since he's Newcastle's mechanic,” Frank pointed out, “he not only knows what he's doing, he has a perfect excuse to be out on the dock at all hours. All he needed to do was watch for the right moment. It makes sense, Joe.”

Frank paused for a moment to sort out his thoughts, then added, “Then, this morning, Gerald told everybody that we're detectives. Newcastle suddenly realized that we're not just a couple of guys hanging around, that we're actively trying to unmask the saboteur
 . . . his
saboteur.”

“Yeah, and the next thing we know, somebody's messed with the throttle cable on
Sleuth
and wired a firecracker to the engine of our van,” Joe said. “Those are both pretty technical jobs, too. It all adds up, Frank, it really does. The question is, how do we prove it?”

“I don't know if we can,” Frank admitted. “But
we can try to build a case. We already have one witness who can place Skip at
Adelita
during the most likely time for the sabotage to the fuel line—Connie. And we've got a witness who saw a dark green tow truck next to our van. Now we need to find out if Skip drives a truck like that.”

“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.