The Apeman's Secret (6 page)

Micky Rudd proved to be a rangy, bald-headed man who seemed to live in a constant state of excitement. After inviting the Hardys to sit down, he paced about the office. “I saw you fellows on television last night,” Rudd began, “so I don't need to tell you about this nut who's impersonating the Apeman.”

Frank nodded. “We saw him at the disco.”

“Then you know he's dangerous! That's why I'm hoping you two will take the case. I want you to hunt him down before he blows his top completely and does something really serious!”

“What made you call on us, Mr. Rudd?” Joe asked.

“As I say, I saw you on television last night. That's what made me think of you. But that's not the
only
reason; no, indeed!” Micky Rudd paused to flash a brilliant smile at the Hardys, as if he were spotlighting them in the full, dazzling glare of his hundred-kilowatt personality. “People all over the country have heard of the Hardy boys and their famous dad! They
trust
you. If they read that Star Comix has asked you two to find this phony Apeman, they'll know it's a real mystery case!”

Rudd whipped a vivid blue silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket to dab the perspiration from his forehead.

Frank frowned thoughtfully. “Are you implying that otherwise some people may think the raids and the vandalism are just a dirty trick to get some free publicity?”

“Of course! What else?”

“Seems a bit farfetched, doesn't it?”

“Sure, it does to us because we know it's not true. But not to the general public, it doesn't. They think if we're in the comic book business, we must be crazy to start with!”

Joe repressed a grin. “You'd
have
to be crazy to damage your own starring character.”

“Right!” Rudd explained. “That's just the point. All this monkey business could wreck the public image of the
real
Apeman. If folks keep hearing how this fake Apeman goes around threatening people and wrecking property, some of that unpleasantness could rub off on our copyrighted comic book character. It could ruin the appeal of his television show!”

Rudd pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead again as he resumed pacing about the office.

“So you assume that's the impostor's motive?” Frank asked.

Rudd shrugged helplessly. “Who knows? The nut must hate
somebody,
the way he keeps smashing things up!”

“Can you think of anyone who might have a spiteful grudge against Star Comix?”

The bald-headed editor-publisher flung himself into his desk chair and screwed his face into a thoughtful scowl. “Well, let's see. There's an artist named Hamp Huber, who probably doesn't like Star Comix too well right now.”

“Why not?”

“He used to draw our Apeman comic book, but last month I fired him.”

“How come?” put in Joe.

“Oh ... we had various differences. The main thing was, we couldn't depend on him to deliver the work on time.”

“This fellow Huber was a free-lance artist?”

Rudd nodded. “Most of our comic books are done that way, by free-lance artists and writers who work at home. The guys you see working at drawing boards here in the office mostly just do coloring or make changes when we discover a goof in the pictures or balloons.”

Frank said, “Give us Huber's address, please, and we'll check him out.”

“Any other possible suspects?” Joe added.

Rudd scratched his jaw. “Well, maybe I shouldn't mention him, but there's Gil Ostrow.”

“Who's he?”

“The editor in chief of Galaxy Comics. That's our main competitor. From what I hear, Gilly's pretty jealous about the big hit our Apeman character has made on TV.”

“Is Galaxy located here in New York City?” Frank inquired.

“Yes. A few blocks up on Madison Avenue.” Rudd added the address to Hamp Huber's name and address and handed the slip of paper across his desk to the older Hardy boy.

“Is there any chance the impostor may have some connection with the TV show?” Frank went on.

Micky Rudd thought for a moment, then shook his head doubtfully. “I can't think of anyone in the television end of things who'd be mad enough at us to pull such a trick. But the guy to talk to about that is Vern Kelso.”

“He's a television executive?”

“Yes, at the Federated Broadcasting System. That's the network that carries ‘The Apeman.' Vern and I worked together to develop the show, and then he helped sell it to the top brass at FBS.”

The Hardys looked at each other to see if either had any more questions, then rose and shook hands with the bald-headed publisher.

“Okay, Mr. Rudd,” said Frank. “We'll do our best to find out who's behind all this trouble.”

“Good! I'm counting on you Hardy boys!”

From Rockefeller Center, the two young sleuths walked north up Fifth Avenue toward Central Park. The street was fronted by fashionable shops, and on the right loomed the imposing gray spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

“What did you make of Rudd?” Joe asked his brother as they turned toward Madison Avenue.

Frank grinned dryly. “I'd say he's quite a character himself. But underneath all that fast talk, I get the impression he's really worried over this nut who's on the loose, and maybe not just about the public relations angle, either!”

“Same here,” Joe agreed. “Once or twice he looked downright scared, almost as if he thought that fake Apeman might come after
him!”

Although they had no appointment, the editor in chief of Galaxy Comics agreed to see the Hardy boys as soon as he heard who they were. He turned out to be a gnomelike man with a wild shock of rusty, graying hair that stuck out in all directions.

As they shook hands with him in turn, Frank and Joe exchanged hasty glances. The same thought was passing through both boys' minds. If Gil Ostrow really was behind the malicious vandalism, at least they could be sure of one thing; he certainly wasn't impersonating the Apeman himself. He was not big enough.

“Sit down, fellows,” Ostrow said. “Tell me what brings the Hardy boys to Galaxy Comics.”

Frank explained that they were trying to find the mysterious vandal who had been posing as the Apeman. Since Galaxy Comics was the main competitor of the Apeman comic books' publisher, it was natural to include Galaxy in their investigation. Frank tactfully named no names, but Gil Ostrow's immediate response was a sarcastic smile.

“So Micky Rudd sicced you on me, did he?” Ostrow chuckled contemptuously. “That figures!”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Ostrow?” Joe asked.

“Listen, Son! Rudd and I have been feuding for years. That big mouth would stoop to anything to do me a bad turn!”

“Then you deny that you'd have any reason to try and make people sore at the Apeman character?”

“Of course I deny it! Why should I want to cause the show any trouble? I think it's great having a comic book character on television. The more the better! It's good for our business!”

“If you're telling us the truth,” said Frank, “why should Mr. Rudd try and throw suspicion on you?”

“I just told you, we've been feuding for years. He probably didn't mention that we sell twice as many comic books as Star Comix does.” Ostrow hesitated a moment, studying his fingernails, then looked up with a cold smirk at the Hardys. “Let me put it this way, boys. I'll just quote you a remark that was made to me several years ago by an artist named Archie Frome. Archie's dead now, so he won't mind if I repeat it. He said to me once, confidentially,
‘That guy Rudd's a real crook!'
End of quote.”

“Any idea what he was referring to?” Frank probed.

“I wouldn't even try to guess, Son. I'm not that interested in Rudd's business. I merely quote the remark for whatever it's worth.”

Before returning to their car, the Hardys stopped at a coffee shop for hamburgers.

“Look, Frank! Whoever's impersonating the Apeman must be a real muscle-type,” Joe reasoned. “Right?”

His brother nodded. “That's for sure. Nobody's born with a build like that guy's got. The only way to get a chest and arms that big is by working out with weights for a long period of time. He looked like a pro to me.”

“Check! And from what I've read, the favorite spot for body-building enthusiasts in this part of the country is the Olympic Gym. Why don't we go there and see if we can pick up any clues?”

“Good idea!”

The boys looked up the address of the Olympic Gymnasium in the Manhattan telephone directory. It turned out to be located in the basement of an office building in the West Forties, not far from the seedy Times Square area.

The spacious room was filled with young men in gym trunks who were working out with barbells and tugging rhythmically at the handgrips of weight-lifting machines. The atmosphere reeked of liniment and perspiration.

A powerfully built fellow with one leg in a plaster cast was seated on a bench near the door, enviously watching the exercisers. As Frank and Joe came in and looked around for someone who might give them information, he suddenly exclaimed, “Say! You two are the Hardy boys, aren't you?”

Frank and Joe responded with friendly grins and introduced themselves.

“I
thought
I recognized you,” he said. “I saw you on TV last night. I'm Rollo Eckert.”

They shook hands.

“Don't tell me you guys are working on the Apeman case?” he inquired.

“The fake Apeman case.” Frank smiled. “Matter of fact we are. Maybe you can help us.”

“Glad to, if I can.”

“We'd like to know how many men in this part of the country are near enough to champion class to impersonate the Apeman.”

Rollo Eckert looked embarrassed. He hesitated before replying, “‘Fraid I can't help you much there. I just don't know the local body builders well enough. Actually I'm from California. I just came east because I was offered a part in a Broadway show. But then I had an accident and broke my leg. So now I can't even go home to California until the lawsuit over the accident is settled.”

“Tough break,” said Joe with a glance at Frank. Both Hardys felt that Eckert was stalling because he was too polite or cautious to name any names.

“I'll tell you someone who might know, though,” Eckert went on helpfully. “A friend of mine, Zack Amboy. He just went into the locker room to dress, but he'll be out in a minute. Zack's a world-class body builder. In fact, he won the title of Mr. Hercules last year. He knows all the guys who pump iron around here.”

Presently Amboy emerged onto the floor of the gymnasium, wearing street clothes. He greeted the Hardys enthusiastically when Rollo introduced them.

“Pleased to meet you, fellas! I've heard a lot about you and your old man. Saw you on the television news last night, by the way!”

Although Zack was impressively big and seemed very good-natured, Frank and Joe got the impression that he might not be overly bright.

Eckert told him why the Hardys had come and then went hobbling off on crutches. Zack scratched his head thoughtfully and began counting on his fingers.

“Well, let's see. Come right down to it, I can only think of eight guys who might be able to go around pretending they were the Apeman. Y‘understand now, I'm not talking about their faces, just their builds.”

Frank said, “If you saw what happened at the disco last night on the TV news, then you also must have seen the faker who impersonated the Apeman.

Zack nodded. “Sure, I got a good look at him. That guy had a great set of muscles! He could win plenty of competitions!”

“Could you give us the names and addresses of those eight body builders you mentioned?”

“Sure thing. I dunno where they all live, but I can get their addresses out of the files.”

Amboy went into the office of the gymnasium manager. He soon came out again, holding a slip of paper with the names and addresses. “There you go, fellas.”

Frank and Joe thanked him and said good-bye as the manager came over to speak to the strong man. The two boys walked out of the gym and were on their way through the basement corridor toward the stairs when Zack came running after them.

“Hey, there's a call for Frank Hardy!”

Surprised, Frank went back to answer the phone. Joe waited for him and chatted for a minute with Zack, who was on his way out of the building.

Meanwhile, Frank picked up the phone in the manager's office. “Hello,” he said but got no response. “Hello! ... Hello?”

There was still no reply. Frank waited, thinking the party might have been called away from the phone. But after a while he heard a click as the person hung up.

Frank lowered the phone in puzzlement. Suddenly a thought struck him. He put down the receiver and ran out of the gym, only to stop short in dismay.

Frank knelt down anxiously to examine his brother. Joe's pulse was strong and regular, and his only injury was a bump on the back of the head.

Remembering a first-aid cabinet that he had noticed on the wall cf the gym, Frank ran back to fetch a bottle of smelling salts. He waved it under Joe's nose and chafed his wrists. Presently the younger Hardy boy revived and sat up.

“Wow!” Joe rubbed his head and looked around to get his bearings.

“Can you remember what happened?” Frank asked.