Line of Fire (4 page)

"You're right." Joe kicked the dead tire. "So how can we prove it, one way or the other?"

"We might put a word in Con Riley's ear. So he can check him out."

"Good idea." Joe grinned. Then his grin slipped. "But I bet that George's actions aren't going to be easy to trace."

Frank shrugged. "We can hope." Then he kicked the dead tire too. "We'd better change this and see about fixing the damage we did. After that, I want to give Callie a call at the Times."

Callie didn't have good news. "Liz is giving me her investigative reporter act. She doesn't want to reveal her information or her source."

Frank sighed. "We know her source, and the information will probably be in tomorrow's paper."

"Maybe not. The reporters aren't having an easy time checking out all of the things Denny's saying. And since he's saying things about Lucius Crowell, they've got to be careful. It might not be a libel suit, but he can get at the paper through the advertisers. However, as a politician and public figure he's in a tight spot — he can't sue for libel because all Denny's doing is challenging his record."

"Keep trying, Callie. We'll poke around, too."

Frank hung up the mobile phone. "We have some offices to hit. They're going to be closing soon."

The state and federal offices were pretty disappointing. "The files on Crowell Chemical and the disaster are pretty thin," Frank complained.

"Just as well," Joe said as he thumbed through copies. "The gibberish that's here is more than enough for me."

"They had safety plans," Frank said, putting aside a small pile of papers. "And construction permits. But I can't find out what they were storing in the plant at the time of the disaster. The company's records were lost in the fire. And even these waste permits really don't tell us a lot."

He tossed the papers from his seat. "There are clues here, hints. I can guess some of the chemicals that might have been there, but that's all it is, pure guesswork. If this is all Denny's got, I don't know what kind of a case he'd have. Unless Crowell was storing them illegally. Without proof, though, Denny is never going to convince anyone of his accusations."

"Maybe there's more at the town office," Joe suggested. "After all, the town people would be the closest to the disaster."

Frank nodded. "And under Jack Morrison, they were the most crooked."

"Maybe Crowell isn't as clean as he'd like people to think."

But when they arrived at the Bayport town hall, they found a small crowd of news people gathered outside.

"What's going on here?" Joe asked the group.

"They're waiting for a press statement," a voice from behind them said.

The Hardys turned to find Chet Morton leaning against their van, his hands in his pockets. Their heavyset friend wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that hung askew from his open collar. He also had a huge grin at their surprised expressions.

"Chet, what are you doing here?" Joe asked. "And why are you dressed like that?"

More to the point, Frank asked, "And how did you know about this press conference?"

"Easy," said Chet, his grin growing. "I work here. The town internship program has me fetching and carrying for Mr. Corrigan, the head clerk."

"So you know all about the files," Frank said.

"First thing I had to learn," Chet agreed. "Mr. Corrigan told me I'd be his arms and legs. But he's a nice guy. That's why I'm out here. He asked me if I wanted a late-afternoon snack."

"Maybe he also wants you to be his stomach," Joe said, patting Chet on the shoulder. "You could make a career out of this."

"Hey, Chet," Frank cut in, "do you think you could get us in to wherever they keep the files on the Crowell Chemical disaster?"

"I suppose I could," Chet said. "If you made it worth my while."

"What's this?" Frank said. "You, almost a public official, asking for a bribe?"

Chet shrugged. "It's the way things get done around here. Mr. Corrigan has a picture up in his office of him and a pal, Howard Zale, down at Zale's retirement home in Florida. The place looks like something from TV—swimming pool, boat, the works. I guess either Zale never spent a penny he made as fire inspector, or people greased his palm. Now, I was thinking of maybe a pizza .. ."

; Joe grinned. "Now, that's a way to get a greasy palm."

Laughing, Chet pushed himself away from the van. "Come on, guys. It was worth a try."

He led them around the back of the building and pulled out a key and let them in through a steel door. "Don't make any noise," he whispered as he headed downstairs to the basement. "I don't want to get Corrigan on my case."

They headed along a dimly lit corridor, then turned into a large room. Row after row of metal shelves filled the space, and each shelf was filled with brown cardboard file boxes, coded with mysterious letters and numbers.

"This is some system," Frank muttered as he followed Chet. "I'm surprised it's not computerized though."

"The town keeps talking about it, but they don't like the cost of inputting all the data," Chet explained.

"I'm more impressed at how you know where the stuff is," said Joe.

"Oh, it's easier than it looks," Chet said, confidently leading them onward. He stopped at a shelf and pointed. "Right there."

The Hardys followed his finger to three empty spaces in the middle of the shelf.

"You wanted to know where the files were kept," Chet said with a grin. "Mr. Corrigan had me pull them this morning. That's what the press conference is about."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Well, I'm glad we didn't pay him the pizza first," Joe finally said.

"I guess if we want to hear anything about those files, we'll have to wait in line with the press people," Frank said.

"Sorry, guys," Chet said, heading back toward the door. "You know I'd like to help you out—and Denny, too, of course. I figure this must have something to do with what Denny was saying at the party. But Mr. Corrigan has all the papers in his office — "

He cut off in midsentence as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside.

"I don't like this one little bit," a whining voice complained.

"Corrigan," Chet whispered.

"You liked taking our money well enough, a rougher voice answered. "So did Zale." Frank and Joe looked at each other. They recognized the voice. It belonged to George, the guy who had greeted them at Crowell's mansion.

"That was back when Morrison was running the show," Corrigan said. "Zale had lots of pull with Jack. Now, though, they could hang us — " "Don't worry," George said. "You've got the substitute records. Soon, people can look through your records all they like. And all they'll find is that Denny Payson is a liar — or «crazy." He laughed. "Just as soon as the real stuff goes through your shredder."

Joe eased the door open, putting his eye to the slit he'd created. George and a mousy-looking guy in baggy pants — Corrigan, obviously—were heading down the corridor. In their arms were three brown cardboard boxes like the ones from the file shelves.

George strolled along with one under each arm. Corrigan staggered under the weight of a single box. Looking over his shoulder in annoyance, George slowed his pace to match Corrigan's.

"They're taking all the files on the Crowell disaster," Chet whispered, peering over Joe's shoulder.

"And they're taking them to the shredding machine," Frank said. "We've got to stop them. - The only question is how?"

Joe grinned. "I've got an idea." He leaned forward, whispering in Chet's ear. A slow smile spread over Chet's face. "Fine," he said. "I didn't really want to keep this job anyway."

As Frank stared in surprise, Chet opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. "Oh, hi, Mr. Corrigan."

"Oh, ah, Chester." Corrigan's voice sounded flustered. "I thought you were out getting a snack."

"I decided it was too late," Chet said. "Hey, are you carrying that to the shredding room? Let me help you."

"That's all right," Corrigan said nervously.

"No, I ought to help." Chet's voice was loud and cheerful. "After all, I'm supposed to be your arms and legs."

Frank peeked out to see Corrigan and Chet struggling over the box. The head clerk looked over at George. "Ah, why don't you go ahead. I'll be right along," Corrigan said.

George shrugged and headed quickly down the corridor. As soon as he was out of sight, Chet let go of the box. Corrigan staggered backward, sending files flying.

Joe pushed the door open. "Hi, we're collecting for the Bayport scrap paper drive. Is that] going to the shredding room?"

Corrigan jumped back. "What? No!"

"But you just said this was going to the shredder," Chet said.

"Here, we'll help you pick this stuff up." Joe bent down and grabbed a handful of papers. So did Frank.

"You're sure we can't just take that box off your hands?" Joe insisted.

Corrigan shrank back.

Then came a roar from down the hall. George came charging toward them.

"Gee, your friend seems awfully upset," Joe said, heading for the stairs. "Maybe we should be moving along."

Chet faded back into the file room as Frank and Joe ran for the stairs.

"Wait a second! Give me those papers!" Corrigan dropped his box and began pursuing the Hardys, quickly joined by George, who put his boxes down too.

Frank and-Joe threw themselves up the stairs. Behind them they could hear the heavy stomping of George's feet and the rabbity, agitated gasping of Corrigan.

They were halfway up the last flight of stairs, and Joe began to think that he and Frank might just make it.

Then George's hamlike hand closed on his ankle.

; Caught off-balance, Joe fell, the papers scattering from his hands. He tried to kick himself ffree, but he couldn't get the leverage. George's crushing grip was bad enough, but he was twisting Joe's leg so that his free leg was caught under him.

"You!" George called up to Frank. "Hold it!"

Already at the top of the stairs, Frank turned—and froze.

"If you want your brother to keep this leg, you'd better toss those papers down."

Frank stared down at Joe, the papers tight in his grasp. "How do I know you'll let him go?"

"You don't," George said, grinning nastily. "That's the risk you take when you go putting your nose where people don't want it." George twisted Joe's ankle a little more, and Joe grimaced in pain. "Come on, kid. This leg doesn't have much give left in it."

Frank stood, undecided what to do. He was too far away to reach Joe before George really hurt him. He looked from the papers in his hand ; to his brother. But despite his pain, Joe winked · at him encouragingly. His eyes went from the papers to George's face.

Now Frank understood. He slumped his shoulders in defeat. "All right, you win." He raised the papers and came down a step.

George grinned in triumph, stretching out his left hand. His right hand shifted for a new hold on Joe's leg, preparing for a final, leg-breaking twist.

But Frank came no closer. He sent the papers he was holding straight into George's face.

George flinched involuntarily, and Joe, alert for the chance, twisted free. He scrambled up the stairs, intercepting Frank, who was coming down.

"Come on!" Joe pointed to the door above them.

"But, the papers — " Frank was jerked backward as Joe tugged on him.

"Taken care of," Joe gasped.

Frank joined the retreat, just escaping George's furious lunge.

The Hardys clambered up the stairs and out the door. Joe grabbed Frank's arm, steering him around to the side of the building.

Frank risked a quick look behind from the corner. What he saw set him running even harder. "George and Corrigan are still after us," he said.

"So?" Joe didn't waste any more breath on words.

"George's reaching into his coat," Frank gasped. "I think he's unlimbering that cannon."

He looked over at Joe. "This isn't exactly the way I wanted to find out if he has a laser sight." "No sweat," Joe said.

They had reached the front of the building by then and still they heard George pounding up behind them. But as they charged into the crowd of news people, George fell behind.

And when Frank realized what was happening on the steps, he froze, too.

Chet Morton was standing by the front door, two brown file boxes beside him. He kept tossing papers into the hands of the press and media people, who were going wild.

"Sure, I guess you can have them," Chet said into one microphone. "After all, they were just going to put them through the shredder."

That started up a new commotion among the news people.

Frank glared at Joe. "So this is why you weren't worried when I threw a handful of papers to George. You could have told me about it."

"I had just enough time to tell Chet." Joe grinned. "Look at him up there. He's really enjoying this circus."

"So are the news people. They're eating it up."

Joe nodded. "I just hope the guy from the Times is around. Liz Webling would be heartbroken to lose out on a scoop like this."

They could hear one reporter reading a report as she stumbled down the steps. "It's been a long time since I took chemistry," she said. "Some of these things I can't even pronounce. But I recognize enough. These chemicals are highly flammable. I didn't know they were allowed to store this stuff."

Frank and Joe stared at each other. "Results," Frank murmured. "Crowell was probably storing barrels of dangerous waste, and just hoping no one would complain."

"I can hardly wait to see the news tonight," Joe said.

That evening, local television was full of the story about the files. The whole Hardy family saw film clips of Chet Morton distributing files, while explaining that they were all headed for the shredder anyway.

But that wasn't all. People were starting to wonder how much Crowell actually knew about the chemicals. Next followed interviews with a very unhappy Mr. Corrigan. According to the head clerk, the distribution of the records was some sort of prank. The real records, he claimed, were inside the building.