The Demolition Mission (6 page)

“Callie called last night after you went to bed. She said she'll meet us at the derby,” Frank told his brother. “Remind me to leave her ticket at the pass gate.”

Frank turned into the parking lot next to Grayson's Electronics, which was located on the edge of Bayport's waterfront. The store's plate-glass windows featured used radios, TVs, and VCRs.

“We've got a little mystery for you to solve,” Joe said to Mr. Grayson as the brothers stepped into the shop.

“Could you tell us what this is used for?” Frank held up the plastic relay.

Mr. Grayson took the part and examined it closely. “What do you think it's for?” the electronics expert asked, looking back and forth at the two brothers.

“We thought it might have been used in a car,” Joe told him, “maybe even an actual race car.”

“You're right,” Mr. Grayson said with a nod. “It is used in a car. This is what they call a power card. Two of these wires carry power from a battery, and these thicker wires connect up to motors or solenoids.”

“What kind of car uses this?” Frank asked.

“A model car,” Mr. Grayson said. “Radio control hobbyists use these. This particular power card is very expensive, nearly three hundred dollars.”

“You mean remote control cars like those?” Joe said, pointing at the foot-long models on the shelves in back of Mr. Grayson.

“That's right,” Mr. Grayson said. “The operator holds a remote, sort of like those joysticks used with video games. This little gem receives the signals from the remote.” The technician handed the power card back to Frank. “Does that solve the mystery?” he asked.

“Not quite,” Joe said with a smile. “But thanks for your help.”

“So what do you think?” Frank asked as he slipped behind the wheel of the van. “Was the
power card dropped in Building C by a mechanic who just happens to be a remote-control model car fan?”

“Maybe,” Joe said thoughtfully.

The van's cellular phone buzzed, and Frank picked it up. “Hello?”

“I'm in big trouble!” he heard Chet say in a panicky voice. “I'm being held at the police station. They found a stolen car stereo in my jeep.”

“Hang in there, we'll be right down,” Frank said. He listened for a moment, while Chet told him more details about the stolen stereo, then hung up.

“What's going on?” Joe asked his brother.

“Chet's been arrested,” Frank said.

“Chet?
What for?”

“The police received an anonymous tip that a stereo had been stolen,” Frank said as he pointed the van in the direction of the Bayport police station. “The caller even gave the police the license number of the thief's car. When they searched Chet's jeep, they found the stereo hidden under the seat. But that's not all,” Frank added in a grim voice. “It's a stereo taken from the Saurion.”

“I owe you guys one,” Chet said in a relieved tone as he joined the Hardys in Officer Con Riley's office. Frank and Joe had just explained to Riley the specifics of the speedway incidents.

“No one here at police headquarters thought you were guilty of larceny,” Con told Chet, “but the evidence meant we had to hold you.”

“We're going to find out how this stolen stereo is related to the other problems out at the speedway,” Joe told Con.

“I'm sure you can take care of it,” Riley said as the three left the station.

“Tell us what happened from the beginning,” Frank said to Chet as Joe drove away from police headquarters.

“The police woke me up around eight this morning,” Chet said. “They pounded on the door until I let them in. Con Riley was holding a car stereo and asking me where I got it.”

“What did you tell him?” Joe asked.

“I told him it wasn't mine.”

“Then he asked me if it was my jeep that was in the driveway, and I told him yes,” Chet continued. “He said he had found the radio in it.” Chet shook his head. “I couldn't believe it.”

“Where was the jeep parked?” Joe asked.

“In the driveway, right where it stalled.”

“Con said specifically the stereo had been in the Saurion?” Frank asked.

“The anonymous caller said it was, so Con Riley talked to Felix Stock,” Chet replied, “and Stock told him the serial number matched. He said the Saurion has custom-made stereos.”

“Whoever made that call is probably behind the threats against Stock and Katie,” Frank said.

“And the caller knows where the Saurion's hidden,” Joe added. “Looks as if he wanted to frame Chet.”

“Let's get out to the speedway and look around again,” Frank said.

Joe headed the van north out of Bayport. Using the cellular phone, Frank put through a call to the speedway. Stock picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Have you found the Saurion?” Frank asked.

“No,” Stock told him grimly. “And I don't see how we'll be able to finish one of the production cars in time for tomorrow's race. Too much work has to be performed by hand. And Marvin doesn't answer my calls,” he added.

“Marvin Tarpley?” Frank asked, remembering the man's name from last evening's computer check.

“My mechanic,” Stock told Frank.

“We'll solve this case,” Frank said to Stock. “And we'll find that prototype.” He hung up and told Joe and Chet what Stock had said.

“We'd better add Tarpley to our list of suspects,” Joe said. “He was banned from the racing association. There might be a motive there.”

“And I want to check on something strange I noticed yesterday at the speedway,” Frank added. “Those strips of dead grass between the buildings. Why would grass burn out like that?”

“No sprinkler system?” Chet suggested.

“But the grass is green on both sides of the browned-out areas,” Frank remarked.

Joe slowed the van as they approached the speedway entrance. He wrote Callie's name on the back of one of the demolition derby passes Curt Kiser had given Chet and left it at the pass gate.

“What a bunch of junkers,” Chet said as Joe slowed the van so they could look at the preparations for the evening's demolition derby. “They look as if they've already been demolished.”

Joe didn't see a model made less than fifteen years ago, and most were older. All of them were dented and rusty, but they were brightly painted.

Joe hit the brakes when a wiry young man in greasy jeans stepped out into the roadway and signaled for them to stop.

The man peered into the driver's window. “Is one of you the guy who's driving tonight?” he asked. “They're supposed to send someone right over to take a practice run. I'm in a bind since Tarpley left.”

Joe immediately recognized the man. He was the tough guy's companion from the Circuit Diner. But the young man didn't seem to recognize Joe.

“What happened to Tarpley?” Joe asked.

“Who knows,” the man said disgustedly. “He was bragging about making some
real
money.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances.

“So who's the driver?” the man wanted to know. “That guy there?” He pointed at Chet.

“Not me,” Chet said, shaking his head. “No way.”

“He's our manager,” Joe said quickly. “I'm the one who drives. That is, I've driven racing cars.”

“Park your van over there in the infield by that block building,” the man said. He started to step back, then reached his hand through the window. “Name's Rusk,” he said, “Dwaine Rusk. I'm managing tonight's derby.” He peered at them. “It seems like I've seen you guys somewhere before.”

“Frank and Joe Hardy,” Joe said, shaking hands. “And that's Chet Morton.”

“Are you nuts?” Chet whispered.

“Probably,” Joe admitted. He turned the van toward the derby pit area and then stopped while he waited for a tow truck to pass. “But that's one of the men from the diner yesterday.”

“It definitely is,” Frank said, nodding. “I recognized him, too. And I have a feeling it was Marvin Tarpley he was having lunch with.”

“These your new drivers, Dwaine?” a familiar voice asked. Joe turned to see that Curt Kiser was approaching, wearing his usual sunglasses.

Rusk nodded and shrugged. “The blond guy's driving,” he told Kiser. “He seems pretty green, though.”

“I can drive,” Joe told Kiser calmly.

Kiser's eyes opened wide in surprise when he recognized Joe.

“We'll find out,” Rusk said with a snort. “Start up that purple job over there, and I'll give you a little test.”

Rusk was chuckling as Joe got out of the van and walked toward a heavily dented purple sedan.

“And get that van parked,” Rusk ordered Frank.

“Was Joe bitten by the racing bug?” Curt Kiser asked as he slipped into the passenger side when Frank got behind the wheel.

“One of his fantasies is to drive in the Indianapolis five hundred,” Frank told the speedway owner.

“The demolition derby is starting at the bottom,” Kiser said, shaking his head. “But Rusk likes to challenge his drivers.”

“Tell me about Dwaine Rusk,” Frank said.

“Dwaine would like to drive in the Indy, too.” Kiser chuckled. “But he's having too much fun running the derby.”

“Is Marvin Tarpley a friend of his?” Frank asked.

“I wouldn't say that,” Kiser replied. “Tarpley's one of those guys who's always bragging about some big deal. The last big deal he was involved in got him thrown out of auto racing.”

Frank remembered the information about Tarpley on the computer. He was about to ask Kiser what the deal was when Chet tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Joe got that ugly junker started.” Chet pointed at the purple car with the large yellow letters reading Purple Machine.

Pulling into a space next to the wooden derby fence, Frank looked out into the arena where Joe was fishtailing the purple car.

“He handles it pretty well,” Chet said.

“He'd better,” Kiser said, “because here comes Rusk. I've seen Dwaine Rusk ram into a car at full speed, even when the driver in the other car lowered his flag.”

“Lowered his flag?” Frank asked.

“You mean your brother doesn't know the rules?” Kiser asked. “See that little red flag right
above the driver's window? Whenever a driver's in trouble, or wants to throw in the towel, he breaks off that flag. You never hit a car that's snapped off its flag.”

Handling the purple junker was a far cry from driving the Saurion, Joe realized, but the old car had some power. That allowed him to accelerate, then simultaneously hit the brakes and spin the steering wheel.

Joe was pulling out of a spin when he caught sight of a black and white zebra-striped car bearing down on him from the pits. With its grille gone, the car appeared to be leering at him.

Joe righted the Purple Machine, neatly dodging his zebra-striped opponent.

“Brace yourself, loser!” Rusk shouted at Joe as he roared past the Purple Machine.

Wrenching the wheel, Joe maneuvered into an angle toward the back end of the zebra-striped car. He floored the accelerator, and the Purple Machine glanced off the fender of the junker, smashing the taillight and popping the trunk lid. He saw an expression of rage come over Rusk's face when he looked over his shoulder at Joe.

The black and white car swung around and caught up with Joe. He had to admit that Rusk's car was faster. Rusk accelerated to full speed and smashed into the back of the Purple Machine.

Joe felt his breath knocked out of him. Without the shoulder harness he would have flown straight
out the windshield. Clearing his head, Joe realized the engine had stalled. He turned the key and pumped the gas pedal. The grinding noise diverted his attention from the growing roar from Rusk's car.

Wham! The zebra-striped car hit Joe once more, knocking the Purple Machine sideways.

Joe turned the key again. This time the car didn't even grind. Joe decided he had better get out of the Purple Machine. He heard Rusk's car roaring straight toward him.

Joe struggled with the safety belt. It seemed to be jammed.

“Break off your flag!” Frank Hardy yelled across the arena at his brother. But Joe couldn't hear over the roar of the other car.

Frank sprinted out into the arena toward the Purple Machine. As he ran, he saw the black and white car crash broadside into Joe's car.

“Joe!” Frank cried. But Joe had disappeared from sight. In fact, the Purple Machine itself seemed to disappear. The last Frank saw of Joe's derby car, it was collapsing like an accordion file of purple metal.

Frank raced up to the wrecked purple car. He saw that the Purple Machine had rolled over on its side, and the roof had collapsed. “Joe!” he shouted hoarsely.

“He didn't break down his flag!” Dwaine Rusk said defensively as he climbed out of the zebra-striped car.

Frank peered inside the car. The driver's seat was completely flattened under the twisted roof supports.

“These old cars sure have roomy backseats,” Frank suddenly heard his brother say.

“Joe, are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay. Just help me out of here.”

Frank wrenched the mangled driver's bucket seat
to the side. There was barely enough opening for Joe to wiggle through.

“Now,
that
was fun!” the younger Hardy insisted as Chet reached the wreck. “But I was afraid I wouldn't be able to slip out of that safety harness. I thought it was jammed. But then it just popped open.” He took off his helmet and combed his hair with his fingers.

“It's not supposed to do that. A driver could get hurt,” Rusk said. “The harness must be broken.”

“How did you get into the backseat?” Chet asked.

“As quick as I could,” Joe said with a grin. “I ripped off the harness and did a fast scramble.”