The Curse of the Ancient Emerald (3 page)

“Guess I'll drive, then. Can't have you passing out behind the wheel.”

“That's what I love about you, Frank. Always looking out for your little bro.”

We arrived at the museum twenty minutes later. It had been reopened, but since it was an hour before closing time, it was pretty much deserted. Joe and I retraced the path our class had taken earlier that day and stopped before the door with the
STAFF ONLY
sign.

“We're not staff,” Joe pointed out.

“No, but we're trying to help. If anyone says anything, we'll just say we got lost.”

Joe tried the doorknob. Luckily for us, the door was still unlocked from earlier. We hurried down the corridor to the restoration room. My hunch was right. There was no crime-scene tape across the door.

I peered inside. Deserted. So the police must have already swept the room for evidence. But there was always a chance they'd missed something.

We searched the room methodically, Joe taking the right side, me the left. We covered the floor slowly, just like our dad had taught us, our eyes moving two inches ahead of our feet, making sure we didn't miss anything.

It took us twenty minutes to cover the room.

“This is hopeless,” complained Joe. “There's nothing here.”

“I think you're right,” I agreed. “Let's check the roof.”

We moved along the corridor and through the storage room, then upstairs to the roof. Again, we each took half.

I studied our surroundings before we started. I hadn't noticed earlier, but the roof was covered in a fine layer of dirt and dust. Not surprising, since Bayport hadn't seen rain in a while. And perfect for picking up footprints.

They were everywhere, and most of them seemed to be the heavy-booted imprints of the police from earlier this afternoon. I returned to the door and squatted down, searching for a different impression.

There. A different shoe from the police boots. It looked like some kind of sneaker imprint.

I followed the direction of the sneaker footprints to the spot where the robber had escaped.

I frowned and backtracked. The same set of imprints veered off the path, creating a second trail that headed to a brick structure. I could hear noises coming from inside. The air-conditioning system.

The footprints stopped before the wall. I knew the robber hadn't had time to do this when Joe and I were chasing him. So these prints must have been from earlier, when he was setting up his escape.

But why did he stop here?

I looked up at the brick wall, which was covered in old graffiti tags. Most of them were faded and flaking away, but there was one piece that was new, sprayed over the top of everything else. It was some sort of symbol: a stylistic painting of a half-closed eye.

I leaned in close and sniffed, catching the distinctive smell of spray paint.

“Joe!” I called. “Over here.”

He hurried over. “Did you find anything?”

I pointed down. “The robber's footprints stop here.” I pointed at the wall. “And that looks fresh.”

Joe studied the wall with interest. “You think he did this?”

“I do.”

Joe took out his phone and snapped a photo of the symbol. Then he clapped me on the back.

“Good work. First clue of the case.”

“Now it's Internet search time,” I said.

Joe frowned. “How are we going to do that? It's a picture.”

I grinned at Joe. “Keep up with the times, little bro. You can search with images now.”

Joe's eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Come on, Joe. You're too young to get left behind by tech,” I teased. “That's Mom and Dad's job.”

We arrived back home just as the sun started to sink into the horizon. Mom was lifting groceries from the back of her car as we rolled into the driveway.

“Hello, boys,” she said as Joe and I helped her pull the rest of the stuff from the backseat.

“Busy day?” I asked.

She smiled. “Always.” She narrowed her eyes and glanced between Joe and me. “Why are you two looking so lively?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, heading toward the back door.

“You know exactly what I mean. You've got that glint in your eye. Just like your father gets when he's working on something.”

“We have no idea what you're talking about, Mother,” said Joe innocently as we entered the kitchen and dumped the bags on the counter.

“I'll bet you don't,” said Mom wryly. “Just be careful, whatever it is you're doing.”

“Always,” I assured her, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Joe and I hurried to my room, and I booted up my computer. Joe connected his phone to the USB cable, and I transferred the picture he'd taken of the symbol.

“Not bad,” said Joe, checking out his handiwork. “I could be a photographer if this whole detective thing falls through.”

I rolled my eyes. After I hit the search button, a stream of results flooded the screen.

“Look at that,” said Joe proudly. “Imagine how Dad would have done this. He'd have sketched the image, then he'd have to go talk to all his contacts, or search through hundreds of crime records to try and find what he needed to know. While we—”

“While we have to trawl through a list of half a million hits,” I finished, scrolling down through the results with a groan.

Most of the results were related to Egyptian hieroglyphs, but I didn't think those were what we were looking for. The eye we had seen was drawn differently, not quite so stylized as the hieroglyphs.

Another big result was the evil eye. The drawing looked similar enough to an evil-eye illustration that I printed out one of the result pages for later, just in case we needed it.

“Can't we narrow the search down a bit?” asked Joe.

“Good idea,” I said, adding keywords like theft and burglary.

The search page loaded, and I clicked on the first link.

“Bingo,” I whispered.

It was a newspaper report about a series of Bayport-area robberies committed fifteen years ago by a burglar called the Phantom. This Phantom left the image of the eye as a sort of calling card at each of the crime scenes.

I clicked on another article about a theft committed against some wealthy art collector in New York.

We found more articles along the same lines, each one detailing yet another crime.

“He always seems to hit rich people,” Joe observed.

We'd seen that kind of thing before: criminals convincing themselves that they weren't really doing anything wrong, that they were committing “victimless crimes” because those targeted could afford it or were insured.

“I still don't get it,” I said, hitting the link to load up the next article. “Why did he send
us
the riddle?”

“Uh . . . maybe that's why,” said Joe, pointing at the computer screen.

I looked at the headline.

PRIVATE DETECTIVE FENTON HARDY CATCHES THE PHANTOM

“No way,” I said softly, scrolling down to read the article.

Private investigator Fenton Hardy has caught the infamous thief known as the Phantom. Hardy was brought onto the case when the Phantom, responsible for a string of high-profile burglaries, sent a riddle to local police detailing his next crime targeting a local art collector. Hardy cracked the riddle and arrived at the scene, surprising the Phantom mid-robbery.

The Phantom, whose real name is Jack Kruger, is now serving fifteen years in a Bayport correctional facility.

“Go Dad!” cheered Joe.

“Yeah, Dad was hard-core back in the day,” I agreed. “But that doesn't help us. If the Phantom really committed these crimes, who's sending us the riddles now? The guy's locked away.”

“Maybe not,” said Joe. “Check the date.”

“Fourteen years ago,” I said. “If he behaved himself in prison, he could easily be out on parole.”

“And wanting revenge,” said Joe darkly.

I
LEAPED OUT OF BED
the next morning. Not even the prospect of school could kill my mood.

I was excited; I'll admit it. Nothing gets the blood flowing more than a case. I've read the same thing about race car drivers and mountaineers, or anyone who does extreme sports. When they're doing what they love, time loses meaning. They feel alive.

I know that's how Dad felt when he was a PI. I think it's how Frank feels, but he won't admit it. I
know
it's how I feel.

I could smell the aroma of bacon coming from downstairs, so I pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and ran barefoot to the kitchen before Frank could eat it all.

I gave Aunt Trudy a peck on the cheek and slid into my chair across from Frank.

“You try Dad again?” I asked, pouring myself some orange juice. We'd tried calling him yesterday, but it was the middle of the night in Russia.

Frank shook his head. “Thought we'd try after breakfast.”

We dug into our food, but before we could finish, there was a knock on the door. I frowned and looked at Frank, my mouth full. “I'll get it,” he said.

He came back a minute later, just as I snatched back my fork from where I had been about to commandeer one of his strips of bacon. “Who was it?” inquired Aunt Trudy.

“No one,” mumbled Frank. “Wrong address.”

“What—” I started to say, but Frank shook his head sharply, and I shut up. Obviously something was going down, but he didn't want Aunt Trudy to know about it.

After we finished our breakfast in record time and were heading to the car, I asked Frank what was going on.

He handed me an envelope.

I turned it over. All it said on the front was Frank and Joe Hardy, written in black Sharpie. No stamp, no address.

“You didn't see anyone?” I asked.

“No one. Clear both ways. He must have had a car.”

I opened the envelope and pulled out the now-familiar sheet of paper with words and letters cut from magazines.

Let's play a game. Three nights. Three riddles. Three robberies. Let's see how clever you really are. But keep the police out of it unless you want those closest to you hurt. Chet Morton. Amber Arlington. Your mother. Your aunt. I know all about your lives.

The Phantom

P.S. As an added incentive, I'll be leaving evidence at the scene of each crime. Evidence pointing to a certain pair of famous detective brothers as the guilty parties. Better get your thinking caps on.

I reread it, fighting down a rising sense of anger. Who did this guy think he was, threatening our family and friends?

“What do you think we should do?” asked Frank.

“Well, we can't tell anyone. He's made it clear what will happen if we do that.”

“So that leaves only one option,” Frank concluded. “We catch the Phantom ourselves.”

I smiled. “I'm going to enjoy this.”

“This isn't a game, Joe.”

“I know. But when people start threatening those we love, it makes me angry.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded at the envelope. “There's more in there.”

I looked in the envelope to find one more piece of paper. I fished it out and read it.

Big or little

The Masterless Man

Little or big

The Wandering Warrior.

Think two stop me

Think two save them.

“What on earth?”

“Yeah,” said Frank as he turned into the parking lot of Bayport High. “He's not exactly making it easy on us, is he?”

“You think we have to crack this by tonight?”

“Three nights. Three robberies. That's what he said.”

“We'll just have to see about that,” I muttered, staring hard at the riddle.

•  •  •

Classes dragged by as I tried to decipher the riddle. The last two lines kept tripping me up.
Think two stop me. Think two save them.
The Phantom was too smart to misspell “to”; he definitely meant the number two. But it didn't make sense.

I met up with Frank in the cafeteria at lunch. He was already sitting down, and it looked like he'd picked some healthy rabbit food to eat. I shook my head. How was that going to keep him going when we had an infamous thief to catch?

I moved along the line. “Daily special, please,” I said.

When I wasn't working on a case, this was my favorite part of the day. It was like Russian roulette with food. You just didn't know what you were going to get.

Today wasn't so bad: french fries and cheeseburgers. I'll take that. Especially over whatever Frank was eating.

I sat down opposite him. He'd placed the riddle in the middle of the table and was staring at it.

“Any luck?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet.” He tapped the last lines of the riddle. “This keeps bugging me. ‘ Think two stop me. Think two save them.' The misspelling has to be intentional.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said, shoving a few fries into my mouth.

“So I'm thinking the two is the key. Like, a pair of something.”

“Two paintings?” I wondered.

He shook his head. “I don't think the Phantom would repeat himself.”

“You don't think
who
would repeat himself?”

I looked up to find Amber and Chet standing by the table with their lunch trays.

I gulped. “Uh . . .” I glanced at Frank. He tried to surreptitiously slide the riddle under the table, but Amber spotted him and grabbed it.

“What's this?” she demanded, taking a seat.

“Nothing,” said Frank. “Just some homework.”

Chet read the riddle over Amber's shoulder, then frowned at us. “You guys are up to something, aren't you?” He looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “You're working on a mystery.”