The Crisscross Crime (3 page)

Frank laughed. “Come on. Get the camera and let's get out of here.”

“What about Biff?” Joe asked.

“I'm sure he's on his way. We'll start walking and flag him down when he drives by.”

•  •  •

The sky had turned a deep purple, and stars were starting to come out high overhead. Frank figured it had to be around nine o'clock.

The Hardys walked along the shoulder of Route 6, counting on their white baseball uniforms to tip Biff off as he passed.

No cars came down the road, though.

“How far have we walked,” Joe asked after a while.

“A mile. Maybe a mile and a half,” Frank guessed. “It's only two or three miles back to town.”

“Biff wouldn't let us down. I wonder where he is.”

Far ahead, Frank spotted what looked like the faint glow of headlights. “I'll bet that's him now.”

Frank and Joe stayed clear of the road, expecting the lights to grow brighter as the car approached. The lights stayed exactly the same.

When they got closer, it seemed that one light was higher up than the other.

“Something's wrong,” Frank said. “That car's not even on the road.”

The Hardys broke into a jog. The second they recognized Biff's hatchback, they started running.

“Hoop!” Joe called. “Biff!”

The little car had skidded off the road and both passenger-side wheels had dropped into a ditch. The engine was still running.

Frank got there first and yanked open the driver's door. Biff was inside, slumped over the steering wheel.

Frank grabbed Biff and pulled him back in the seat. “Biff!” he yelled.

“How bad do you think it is?” Joe asked, his voice tight with tension.

“I don't see any blood.”

Biff groaned and brought his hand up to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he said weakly. “Hey, where's the bozo who ran me off the road?”

Frank smiled with relief. “Sounds like he's going to be okay,” he said to Joe.

Biff shut off the engine, and Frank helped him out.

“Did you get a look at the car?” Joe asked.

“No,” Biff said. “It was too dark. All I know is that the guy was flying—he came right at me.”

“Had to be Meredith,” Joe said.

Biff rubbed at a swelling knot over his left eye. “You're saying you know the clown who almost killed me?”

“He's no friend,” Frank said. “We had a run-in with him back at the scrapyard.” The Hardys proceeded to fill Biff in on everything that had happened to them since the game.

Biff swore to help them track down the two thugs in the black sedan. “And,” he added, “when you find Meredith, I get first crack at him.”

“Get in line,” Joe said. He walked around to the back of Biff's car. “Frank, you steer while Biff and I push.”

The three friends soon had the car back on the road, and Biff got behind the wheel.

“Watch it, Frank,” he said, as his pal started to settle into the front passenger seat.

Frank glanced at the floor of the car. There, he saw a crumpled cardboard box and a circle of golden brown crust.

“Oh, don't tell me . . .” Joe moaned from the backseat.

“Yup,” Biff said. “I brought you guys a hot pizza, but it looks like it took a header in the crash.”

Frank gingerly lifted the pie and flipped it back into the box. The floor was covered with a wet, gooey mix of cheese and sauce.

“Sorry,” Biff said.

“Don't worry,” Joe said, motioning for Frank to hand him the box. “I'm not letting this thing go to waste.”

Biff and Frank grimaced in disgust as Joe scooped up some loose cheese and pepperoni and glopped them on a soggy chunk of crust. He slurped in a stray strand of mozzarella.

“Mmm. Still hot,” he said.

•  •  •

By the time Biff dropped the Hardys off at their van and they made it home, it was past ten o'clock. They found their mother, Laura Hardy, sitting on the living room couch, reading a magazine.

She looked up and smiled. “I'm glad to see you're home. Your game must have gone into extra innings.”

Joe glanced at his older brother. He didn't want to be the one to break the news about their mother's car.

“Joe pitched a great game, Mom,” Frank said, stalling for time. He clapped his brother on the sore spot on his back. “Ten strikeouts—right, Joe?”

“Eleven,” Joe answered, his jaw clenched in pain.

“That's terrific, Joe.” Mrs. Hardy got up and led the way to the kitchen. “Did you have dinner? Do you want a snack?”

“No, you sit down and relax,” Frank said. He pulled out a chair for his mother.

Joe was already looking around in the refrigerator. He pulled out sandwich fixings with one hand and placed them on the kitchen table with the other.

Frank poured himself a glass of milk and sat down next to his mother. “Where's Aunt Gertrude?” Gertrude Hardy was their father's sister. She lived with the family, and both brothers loved her even though she tended to worry about them more than they liked.

“She's at her book club meeting,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just wondering.” Frank
wanted to tell his mother about her car without his aunt in the room. He could count on his mother to be calm, but Aunt Gertrude was another story.

“Your father's going to call tonight,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I'm sure he'll want to hear all about the game.”

“How's his case going?” Frank knew only that his father had gotten a call from the U.S. Treasury Department a couple of days ago. He'd immediately taken off for Switzerland.

“It's something about an international counterfeit ring,” Mrs. Hardy said. “He's helping the Secret Service with the investigation.”

“Cool,” Joe said, sitting down. “Maybe he needs some help.”

“You'd rather go to Switzerland than play baseball?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“No. I want to do both. Do they have baseball in Switzerland?”

“Yeah, they play on skis,” Frank joked. He watched his brother stack layers of turkey and cheese on a slice of bread.

Laura Hardy got up to get a glass of water at the sink. “So,” she said. “How's my car running?”

Frank almost choked on his milk. This was the question he'd been fearing. “Well . . .” he started.

The sound of the kitchen phone ringing saved him.

Joe jumped up and grabbed the receiver. “Hardy residence.”

“Joe, hi, it's Dad. How's everything?”

Joe briefly recounted the baseball victory for his father, and then went on to describe the attempted bank robbery he'd witnessed, carefully leaving out the part about the auto compactor.

He heard his mother gasp in the background. “Why didn't you say anything?” she asked Frank.

“Sounds like you've got plenty of excitement there in Bayport,” Fenton Hardy said to Joe.

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Frank and I want to track down a couple of leads we've got.”

“Be careful, Joe. If you find anything concrete, give Chief Collig a call, okay?”

“Will do,” Joe replied. “When will you be home, Dad?”

“In a couple of days. I'm in the middle of something pretty serious. Special printing plates for fifty- and hundred-dollar bills were stolen last month on the way to the mint.”

“So, why are you in Switzerland?”

“The green ink used to print American bills is made here,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Two days ago a shipment was hijacked, and the Secret Service suspects a man named Larry Gainy.”

“Larry Gainy? What kind of name is that for an international counterfeiter?”

Mr. Hardy chuckled. “Well, Herve DuBois is his real name, Joe. Larry Gainy is just one of his favorite aliases.”

Mr. Hardy reminded Joe to be careful, then asked to speak to his wife.

While Mrs. Hardy talked, Frank and Joe went back to the living room and flopped down on the couch.

“Did you tell her?” Joe asked.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Not yet.” He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV. The evening news had just started.

“Police have not confirmed how much money was taken from the Bayport Savings Bank, but sources have informed Channel Five that the suspect got away with at least two hundred thousand dollars.”

“No way!” Joe gasped, leaning forward.

As the broadcast continued, the Hardys learned the full story. The police had responded to the false alarm that Frank and Joe had witnessed earlier in the evening at First City Bank. While the police were checking that out, Bayport Savings had been hit by someone armed with a semi-automatic pistol.

“Police confirm that the robbery took place at just before six this evening,” the newscaster
continued, “minutes before Bayport Savings was scheduled to close, and only fifteen to twenty minutes after the alarm sounded at First City. Police speculate that the thief, unable to break into First City Bank, decided on Bayport Savings as a secondary target.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. The police were wrong. The Hardys had been chasing the two First City thugs at exactly the time the Bayport robbery had gone down. There was only one explanation.

“It's got to be Meredith,” Frank said, clenching his fist. “He robbed Bayport Savings, then came to the junkyard to meet up with his buddies.”

Joe's eyes narrowed. “Next time we meet up with him, he won't get away so easily.”

Frank picked up the video camera from the coffee table and ejected the tape. “I want to see if you recorded the license number.” He put the tape into the VCR and sat back down.

The tape started with the view out the windshield of their mother's car. There was a glimpse of the black sedan, then it disappeared from the frame as Frank drove the car out of the strip mall parking lot and on to the street. The picture bobbed up and down, making Joe feel almost seasick.

Their mother came into the living room and sat down just as the film showed the black sedan careening through the red light and smashing into the station wagon. The video camera had
picked up the crunching sound of the impact as well.

Joe watched his mother, waiting for her reaction. But she sat quietly, her lips set in a tight line.

They could see the black sedan weaving through traffic ahead. The picture was steadier now, with only an occasional lurch or jolt.

Joe saw his mother's expression change. “That's my car you're driving, isn't it?”

Frank nodded.

“Oh, I can't believe this.” Laura Hardy put her head in her hands. “And I thought you were late because the game went long.”

Frank punched a button on the remote, freezing the picture. The frame stopped with the view out the windshield. The black sedan was only a few car lengths ahead. “Can you read the plate?” he asked Joe.

Joe got close to the screen. “No, it's too blurry. All we've got on these guys so far is reckless driving.”

“And leaving the scene of an accident,” Mrs. Hardy added. “They smashed right into that station wagon.”

Frank started the film again, and the sound of screeching tires and racing engines filled the living room.

“What show is this?” a bright voice asked.

The Hardys turned to see Aunt Gertrude
standing in the doorway, clutching her purse in front of her. “This program looks much more exciting than my book group.”

“This is just a short home movie Joe shot this afternoon,” Frank said.

“Oh, my” was Aunt Gertrude's reply.

The video now showed the black sedan hitting the railroad tracks and flying two or three feet into the air. The Hardys' car followed. The picture jumped with the impact—the ceiling of the car suddenly filled the screen, then a quick flash of Joe's feet as they landed. The picture focused on the road ahead just in time to see the sedan's muffler fly past.

Aunt Gertrude sank into a wing chair, her face pale with fright. “Oh, my,” she said again.

They all watched as the film showed the bank robbers turn into the junkyard in a cloud of dust. Then the picture went black.

“Is that it?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

Joe frowned. “Not quite, Mom. There's one more thing we've got to show you.”

A few seconds later the picture popped on again, blurry and out of focus. Only a high-pitched whining noise could be heard.

“What's that sound?” Laura Hardy asked.

“It's called a hydraulic auto compactor,” Frank said grimly.

“A what?”

Then the scene became clear. The powerful
jaws of the hydraulic press were pinching Mrs. Hardy's car flat as easily as if it were made of aluminum foil.

Mrs. Hardy held her hands to her mouth in shock. “My car,” she moaned. “That's my car getting squashed flat. Were you two inside there?”

“As you can see,” Joe said. “We got out just fine.”

“But it was close,” Frank added. “I'm really sorry, Mom. Joe and I are going to catch the guys who did this, I promise.”

Aunt Gertrude stood up. “I think you should call the police right now. Show them this video.”

“I have to agree,” Laura Hardy said.

Joe ejected the cassette from the VCR. “But we don't have any proof, Mom. I didn't even get the license plate.”

“We'll get the plate number,” Frank said, looking first at Joe, then at his mother. “As soon as we get that, we'll go talk to Con Riley.”

Con was the Hardys' friend inside the Bayport Police Department. Unlike Chief Collig, who was sometimes skeptical of the brothers' activities, Con respected their detective talents and would listen to their story.

It took a little while to soothe Aunt Gertrude, but soon Frank and Joe were upstairs and ready to turn in for the night.

“So how do you propose we get that plate number?” Joe asked.

Frank stood in the doorway of his room, toweling off his brown hair. “Computer enhancement,” he said, hooking the towel over his doorknob. “We'll drop the tape off at Phil's tomorrow morning. I also want to find out what really happened at Bayport Savings Bank. One look at their surveillance video should tell us if our hunch about Bart Meredith is right.”