The Curse of the Ancient Emerald (4 page)

Amber squealed in delight. “A real-life Hardy boys mystery?”

I looked at her in surprise.

She shrugged. “Come on. Everyone knows about you guys.”

Frank and I exchanged a look. “He only said we couldn't tell the police,” I pointed out.

“And Dad,” added Frank.

“
Who
said?” asked Chet.

“The Phantom,” I replied in a low voice.

Chet looked between Frank and me. “I knew it! You guys have another mystery on your hands, don't you?”

Frank nodded. Chet groaned. “Getting involved in this kind of stuff is bad for my health. It's all robbers and men with guns, and chases along cliff-top roads, and . . . and being stuffed inside clocks. It's not good for me.”

“So what's this one about?” asked Amber.

Frank sighed and quickly filled Chet and Amber in on everything that had happened since the theft at the museum.

“And this is the next riddle,” said Amber excitedly. She read it again and jotted it down in one of her schoolbooks.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like? We can help you with the riddle. Four heads are better than two. Right, Chet?”

Chet let his head drop to the table with a groan.

•  •  •

After school Frank and I decided to head out to the Bayport Correctional Facility. There was still a chance we were wrong that the riddle sender was the Phantom. If he was behind bars, obviously it wasn't him.

“Unless,” began Frank as we drove slowly through the high gates, “he has someone doing his work on the outside. A protégé or something.”

“You always have to complicate things,” I said with a smile as we parked the car.

Once we were inside the facility's administration building, everything felt subdued. We'd been here before on cases, and I'd hated it.

Frank approached the front desk. “Frank and Joe Hardy to see Jack Kruger.”

The official checked a sheet of paper on the desk before him. “You're not on the visitors' list.”

“Can you check again?” he asked.

“No need. You're not on the list.” The guard frowned. “Who did you say you were visiting?”

“Jack Kruger,” Frank repeated.

The guard looked surprised. “Kruger? He was released eight months ago.”

“Oh,” said Frank. “I see. I don't suppose you have a forwarding address? We're doing a school project on rehabilitation in prison and thought he'd be great to talk to.”

The guard shook his head. “Sorry, boys. That's not information I can give out.”

“Really?” I said. “Because he's a criminal. Surely it's our right to know where he lives.”

The guard leaned on his desk. “First, he's not a criminal anymore. He did his time. And second,
no
, it's not your right. He has a right to privacy. Got it?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Frank shook his head. I sighed with frustration. It looked like we had no choice but to crack the riddle.

•  •  •

Chet and Amber were waiting outside our house when we got home. I have to say, I didn't mind that much. Amber had been right: Four heads
were
better than two. And a head as pretty as hers . . . well, let's just say I had no complaints if she wanted to hang around.

We gathered in the living room, each with our own copy of the riddle. There was something about one of the lines that was tickling the back of my mind. The Wandering Warrior. I'd heard that phrase before. But where?

“The Masterless Man,” said Amber. “Something to do with slavery? An ex-slave?”

“Or an ex-butler,” said Frank. “Don't old-fashioned butlers call their bosses Master?”

“What about something to do with a master's degree?” suggested Chet.

“It's the Wandering Warrior I keep going back to,” I said. “I'm sure I've heard it before.”

“A knight?” suggested Amber.

“A
Jedi
knight?” put in Chet eagerly.

I frowned and leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes to think. The Wandering Warrior. It was familiar, like something I'd seen so often that I didn't even notice it anymore.

I stood up abruptly. “Wait here,” I said, and sprinted to my room. I headed straight for the DVDs stacked on my bookcase. I scanned the titles with rising excitement, yanked one out, and hurried back downstairs, holding up the cover for everyone to see.

It was an old kung fu movie called
The Traveling Warrior
.

“That's not the same,” Frank pointed out.

My grin faded. “Well, yeah, but it's
similar
.”

Frank frowned. “I don't think similar is going to cut it.”

“Maybe it's the same idea,” said Chet, taking out his phone. He tapped away on the screen for a while, then held it up. “Joe might be onto something.” He nodded. “The Wandering Warrior is a term used for a Japanese samurai without a master. They were called
ronin
. These guys would wander around ancient Japan, hiring themselves out as mercenaries.”

“You see?” I said excitedly. “ ‘ The Masterless Man.' ‘ The Wandering Warrior.' I was right.”

“Fair enough,” said Frank. “Can I take a look?”

Chet handed over his phone. Frank scrolled through the entry for a while, then glanced at us. “It says here the
ronin
use a pair of matched swords called
daishō
. The term comes from two separate words,
daitō
, meaning a long sword, and
shōtō
, meaning a short sword.”

“ ‘Big or little, little or big,' ” said Amber.

“And those last two lines referring to ‘two,' ” I said. “ ‘ Think two stop me, think two save them.' They could refer to the swords! If you stick in a comma, they each make sense. ‘ Think two, stop me; think two, save them.' ”

“So we're talking about a pair of swords from ancient Japan? That's what he's going to steal?” Chet asked.

“No,” said Frank grimly. “He's not. Because we're going to stop him.”

S
O WE'D CRACKED THE RIDDLE
, but our next problem was actually finding the
daishō
weapons that the Phantom was planning to steal.

The first thing we did was phone the museum, but they didn't have any Japanese items on display. We tried farther afield, each of us taking towns and cities surrounding Bayport. Some had Japanese exhibits, but none had the ancient weapons the
ronin
used.

After about an hour we gave up. It was evident that the
daishō
were incredibly rare, and every museum we talked to would kill to get their hands on a matched pair.

“So what's next?” asked Chet. He glanced out the window. “It'll be dark soon.”

Joe paced back and forth. “If we can't find out where these swords are, there's nothing we can do. The Phantom wins on the first night. He frames us, and we spend the rest of our lives in jail.”

“We won't,” I said firmly. “There must be something. . . .” I paused. “I just had a thought.”

“Careful now.” Joe grinned. “You don't want to overheat your brain.”

“What if the swords aren't in a museum? What if they're in a private collection?”

The others stared at me. Then Amber clapped her hands together. “Slow clap for Frank. I think he's got it.”

“There's an auction house downtown,” Chet informed us. “My mom wanted to buy something but took one look at the opening bids and nearly fainted.”

We managed to track down the auction house's phone number.

“Waterson Auctions,” answered a cultured British voice after I had punched in the number.

“Uh . . . hi there,” I said. “I was wondering if you happened to have any Japanese artifacts going up for auction anytime soon. I'm thinking fifteenth to seventeenth century.”

“Ah, you have very refined tastes, sir.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound sophisticated, as if I spoke to auction houses on a regular basis.

“But I'm afraid we can't help you. With such antiques, we like to perform specialized auctions, focusing entirely on one culture or country. As I'm sure you know, it is very expensive to get ahold of experts to verify and price such items.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” I said quickly. “In fact, for the last item I purchased from Sotheby's in England, I had to fly in my own expert from Cape Town.”

“Really?” said the voice on the other end. “Can I get his number? We're always on the lookout for highly qualified individuals.”

“Uh . . . sure,” I stammered. “How about I pop in tomorrow with his details?”

“Much appreciated,” said the voice. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Actually, yes.” I thought I might as well go for broke. “You wouldn't happen to know anyone who might be willing to sell a matched
daishō
set, would you?”

“
Daishō
swords? We sold a set in our last auction, actually.”

“When was that?” I asked eagerly.

“Oh, about eighteen months ago now. A local movie producer, I think.”

“Do you have his name?”

“I'm sorry. We don't give out personal details on the phone.”

“Ah. Of course. Well, thanks for your time.” I hung up the phone.

“That was amazing,” said Amber. “You should take up acting.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “It was nothing.”

Joe frowned. “We still don't know who bought the swords.”

A quick search on the Internet helped us there. There was only one movie producer in Bayport rich enough to spend that kind of money: a man named James Remington. Apparently he'd worked on a few big-budget Hollywood blockbusters but wanted to settle down permanently in his hometown of Bayport.

Another search gave us his address. It was, unsurprisingly, up in Bayport Heights, where the wealthier set lived.

•  •  •

At half past ten I slipped on my shoes and padded quietly to my bedroom door. Mom was in bed already, and I could hear Aunt Trudy watching television.

I hurried to Joe's room. He was waiting, dressed in all black.

“You ready?” I asked.

He grinned. “I was—”

I held up my hand. “Please, don't say something embarrassing like ‘I was born ready.' I'll have to leave you here if you do.”

Joe shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He edged past me out the door. “But I was,” he said over his shoulder.

We snuck downstairs and out the back door, Joe pausing to grab a bag of chips from the cupboard.

“Seriously?” I asked as we headed into the dark.

“Got to keep my energy up.”

We rolled the car out of the driveway so no one would hear us, starting the engine when we were on the street. We stopped to pick up Amber and Chet, then headed toward Bayport Heights. I knew we were close when the houses started to look like fortified mansions and the streets were so clean you could eat your dinner off them. There wasn't a single piece of litter anywhere.

When we arrived at the address, we drove past the house and parked farther down the street.

“How is the Phantom even going to get into the house?” wondered Joe as I killed the engine.

“I have no idea,” I said, leaning back to peer through the window. I checked my watch. It was a little after eleven. There didn't seem to be any signs of life inside the house. All the lights were off.

“What if the Phantom's already been here?” asked Amber.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Good point. Maybe we should take a look?”

Joe and Amber nodded. Chet swallowed nervously.

“I suppose,” he said. “Although I want it on record that I think this is a bad idea.”

We climbed out of the car and hurried along the quiet street. I could hear crickets chirping from a small park off to our left. A dog barked in the distance.

“What if he has dogs?” hissed Chet.

“Good,” I said. “It means the Phantom might not get in. Remember, Chet, we're not here to
steal
the swords. We're here to stop the
Phantom
from stealing them.”

“Oh,” said Chet. “Yeah. Good point.”

The driveway of Remington's house was recessed from the street, flanked on both sides by high walls with ivy growing over the edges. An electric gate blocked the entrance, but that was easy enough to climb.

There was a mailbox sunk into one of the walls. I opened the rear panel and saw it was full of letters. I pulled them out and flicked through them. Bills, junk mail, and one from a travel agency.

“Maybe he's gone on vacation,” I whispered.

I put the mail back, and we crept up the driveway toward the house. There was a small set of stairs leading from the driveway to the front door, easily visible from the street. I didn't think the Phantom would get in that way. Too much risk of being seen.

We hurried past the front door and around to the back of the house. A huge garden sprawled into the darkness, its flowers and pruned trees illuminated by concealed lighting.

We moved onto the porch and past the expensive patio furniture. The back entrance was a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into the kitchen.

I hesitated as we drew closer. Either the glass was extremely clean or . . .

“The door's open!” whispered Amber fiercely.

She was right. The patio's sliding door had been pushed open wide enough to admit someone.

“We should call the police!” whispered Chet.

“We've already been through this,” hissed Joe. “The Phantom threatened our family. We
can't
call the police.”