The Curse of the Ancient Emerald (2 page)

The thief ducked into a storeroom. I picked up speed and arrived a few steps behind him.

As I entered the room, I caught a brief glimpse of something flying through the air toward me. I ducked instinctively, narrowly avoiding a heavy box that smashed against the door frame, showering me with wood splinters and shards of pottery. I hoped that whatever was in there wasn't too valuable.

I kept low and rolled forward, bumping to a halt behind a huge storage crate. Frank appeared in the doorway, and I gestured frantically for him to get down. He dropped to all fours and crawled into the room.

I peered around the side of the crate. There was another door at the far end of the room, and it was swinging shut.

“Come on!”

I scrambled to my feet, Frank close behind. The door led into another, narrower passage, the walls covered in heating pipes. There was a set of stairs at the end, and the thief was already halfway up them.

Frank and I sprinted after him, taking the stairs two at a time. We burst out into bright daylight. I paused, shielding my eyes with my hand.

We were on the roof of the museum. I could see downtown Bayport sprawling around us on all sides. The thief was standing at the edge of the roof, stuffing the painting into some sort of bag. Which he then threw into the air.

But it didn't drop. At least, not right away. A parachute opened, and the painting floated slowly down and out of sight. Then the thief turned to Frank and me, saluted, and fell backward into the air.

“No!” shouted Frank, running forward in a vain attempt to catch him. But he was way too late; the guy would be a pancake by now.

There was a slithering sound to my left. I looked around and saw a pile of orange rope rapidly unraveling. One end was tied to a rock-climbing bolt that had been embedded into the roof, and the other end was sliding over the edge of the building. It stopped suddenly with a barely heard
twang
. I knew that sound. I'd heard the same thing when Frank and I had gone bungee jumping from the Bayport Bridge. I hurried to the edge of the roof and stared down.

The thief was hanging by the bungee cord a few feet above the ground. He pulled himself up, grabbed the cord with one hand, then used a knife to cut it from around his ankle with the other. He dangled from the rope for a second, then dropped lightly to the ground.

He got to his feet, grabbed the painting, and ran away down the alley, tearing off his mask in the process. But he was too far away for me to get a good look at him.

I slapped the lip of the roof, then turned to stare at Frank in frustration.

•  •  •

“You're home a little early. How was the field trip?” asked Aunt Trudy as Frank and I trudged through the kitchen door about three hours later.

I went to the fridge while Frank flopped down at the table.

“Well, there was some trouble at the museum,” I said.

“Oh, dear. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Actually, it was,” said Frank. “A robbery. The whole class had to give witness statements.”

“You should have seen it, Aunt Trudy,” I said, taking a can of soda from the fridge. “This guy had these really sick night-vision goggles. He was dressed in black. Frank and I chased him onto the roof. It was like a James Bond movie.”

“You chased him?” said Aunt Trudy, eyebrows raised. “Isn't that a little dangerous?”

“You know us, Aunt Trudy.” I chuckled. “Danger's our middle name!”

“Well, it's not meant to be. Now, did you have lunch? I have some lasagna in the fridge. I kept some food for you both.”

There's no arguing with Aunt Trudy when she wants to feed you. Not that I'd
want
to argue. Her food is amazing. I sat down opposite Frank.

“So what happened after you chased him?” asked Aunt Trudy.

“He had this amazing parachute bag that he stashed the stolen painting in,” I said. “Just threw it off the roof. Then he jumped after it.”

“And did
he
have a parachute?”

“No,” answered Frank. “The roof wasn't high enough for a full-size parachute to deploy. You need to be at least two hundred feet up to do that.”

“That's good to know,” said Aunt Trudy. “In case I ever get the urge to take up parachuting.”

“This guy had a bungee cord,” I said. “He jumped right into space.”

“You don't have to sound like you admire him so much,” muttered Frank.

“Oh, come on!” I protested. “It
was
kinda cool.”

Aunt Trudy placed two heaping plates in front of us. I paused to take in the heavenly aroma of her homemade lasagna before digging in.

“Did you catch him?” asked Aunt Trudy.

“Afraid not,” said Frank, toying with his food. “He had too much of a head start.”

“Plus, you know, the whole leaping-off-the-roof thing,” I said around a mouthful of food. “Hard to keep up with that.”

The front doorbell rang. I stood up, but Aunt Trudy waved me back to my seat.

“Eat. I'll get it.”

I wolfed down the rest of my food and nodded at Frank's plate. “You going to eat that?”

He slid the plate across to me. “Knock yourself out. Not really hungry.”

Aunt Trudy returned with an envelope. “For both of you.”

“Mail at this time?” said Frank in surprise, examining the envelope.

“It was a courier service. I had to sign on one of those horrible screen things.”

Frank held up the envelope and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Go ahead,” I said. I was still eating, and nothing gets in the way when I'm eating.

Frank opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. I paused, a forkful of meat and pasta halfway to my mouth. I could see by the look on his face that it was bad news.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Frank wordlessly slid the paper across the table. It was a short note made from letters cut out of newspapers and magazines.

Shame you didn't crack the riddle. You could have stopped this.

Underneath these two sentences was a URL.

I glanced at Frank. He nodded, and we rose from the table.

“What about dessert?” cried Aunt Trudy as we hurried from the kitchen. “It's apple pie!”

“Keep it warm, Aunt T,” I called back. “We'll be back in a minute.”

We went into Frank's room, and he sat down in front of his computer. He typed the URL into his browser. When the page loaded, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a video of the stolen painting!

Frank pushed play, and we watched in horror as something was sprayed across the painting from off camera. Then we heard a scratching noise, and a match suddenly appeared, flying through the air.

The painting erupted in flames.

“No way,” I said breathlessly.

The canvas started to bubble and peel, the boat and waves turning black. The fire raged for about thirty seconds, and by the end of the clip there was absolutely nothing left of
Sun Greets Shipwreck
.

“How much did the tour guide say that painting was worth?” Frank whispered.

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Frank studied the note while I replayed the clip, wondering if it was a fake. But I didn't think it was. This painting had the exact same section in the upper right-hand corner that Mr. Ramone had spent the past two months cleaning up. That same bright patch of sun contrasted with the rest of the painting, which was still dull and dirty. It was the real deal.

“What does it mean?” asked Frank. “
How
could we have prevented this?”

“By catching the thief at the museum?” I suggested.

“I don't think so. It's like it's referring to something else—something we should know.” He got up from his desk. “Come on.”

Frank led the way to the entrance hall table where the mail was stored. Dad was away in Moscow, researching Russian law enforcement techniques for a book, and Mom was preparing for a huge open house this weekend, so the mail had piled up over the past couple of days.

Frank quickly flicked through letters and pulled one out addressed to Frank and Joe Hardy. He checked the postmark on the front. “This was delivered yesterday,” he said, ripping it open.

I looked over his shoulder as he unfolded a single piece of paper. Sure enough, it was another note made from mismatched letters.

The storm will come, the ship will fail,

The brothers must think, or the art will sail.

The history of old meets technology of new.

To protect the ship, this is your clue.

I looked at Frank in amazement. “And this came yesterday?”

Frank double-checked the postmark. “It sure did. And our mail is always delivered in the morning.”

“Then . . . we really
could
have stopped it?”

Frank frowned, rereading the riddle. “I don't know. The riddle's pretty vague, don't you think? I mean, would
you
have known it was talking about the painting?”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “Probably not. At least, not at first. But if we'd read the riddle beforehand, we might have realized what it meant when the tour guide showed us the painting.”

“True.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“We don't have a choice. We take this to Chief Olaf.”

I groaned. “Can't we just leave it in an envelope at the police station?”

Bayport Police Chief Olaf had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about the Hardy boys. I never quite figured out what his problem was, but my guess is it's an insecurity thing. Frank and I had solved more cases in the past few years than he had in his whole life. He seemed to think we were just kids poking our noses into grown-up affairs.

Which, to be fair, we kinda were. But still, we
had
nabbed our share of crooks over the years.

Frank clapped me on the back. “Sorry, bro. Fires? Explosions? This seems like one for the police to handle.”

I sighed. “Come on, then. Let's go.”

A
HALF HOUR LATER, I
resisted the urge to lean over Chief Olaf's shoulders and type the website's address for him. His one-finger typing was driving me insane. I couldn't believe people still typed like that in this day and age!

“This better not be a video about that monkey falling off a tree branch,” said Chief Olaf, giving us a stern look from behind his desk.

“It's better than that,” said Joe.

“Well, I wouldn't say
better
,” I added. “But definitely a lot more serious.”

Chief Olaf finally finished typing the address, then moved the mouse to play the video and sat back with a sigh.

Joe and I were sitting on the other side of the desk, but I could tell just by watching his face what parts of the video clip he was watching.

“Is that . . . ?” he began.

“I'm afraid so,” said Joe.

The chief's eyes went wide with shock. He watched the whole thirty-second clip, then tore his gaze away to study the letter that had been couriered to us today.

“What does it mean, you could have stopped this?”

Joe and I exchanged looks. This was the bit that was going to be tricky. If Chief Olaf didn't believe us, we were in big trouble.

I handed him the riddle, which he read, frowning. Then he rubbed his forehead.

“I don't get it.”

“It's a riddle,” said Joe. “Telling us that he was going to steal the painting.”

“It arrived at our house yesterday morning,” I added. I held up my hands as I saw Chief Olaf inflate with anger, getting ready to scream at us. “But we only saw it this afternoon. Promise.”

Chief Olaf regained control of his breathing, which seemed to take considerable effort. He still looked suspicious of us, though.

“Seriously, Chief,” I said. “Even if we'd gotten this yesterday, we wouldn't have had a clue as to what it was about. It's just gibberish.”

“That it is,” Olaf agreed grudgingly. He frowned again. “But why was it sent to you?”

“We have absolutely no idea,” replied Joe.

“It's true,” I agreed. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” muttered the chief. “I'll keep hold of these letters,” he added, getting to his feet.

“Fine,” I said.

Chief Olaf picked up his key ring from the desk and clipped it to his belt. He always carried his keys like that. I'd told him before that it wasn't very secure, but he just waved me away.

“And if you receive any more riddles, bring them straight to me, understand?”

“Understood,” said Joe.

He stared at us as if he wasn't sure whether to believe us. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Get out of here. I've got work to do.”

Joe and I quickly left his office and made our way through the police station, emerging into the late-afternoon light.

“What now?” asked Joe.

“Chief Olaf asked a good question,” I said.

Joe looked at me in astonishment. “He did? I must have missed that.”

“Why was the riddle sent to us?” I said.

“Oh. That one.”

I sighed. “You know, we never really got a chance to look around the museum.”

“Surely the police did that,” said Joe.

“I was watching them. They seemed more concerned with getting statements from us and heading off to lunch than actually looking around.”

“It's a crime scene, though,” Joe reasoned. “It will be off-limits.”

I shook my head. “It can't hurt to check. If it's taped off, we don't go in.”

Joe shrugged. “As long as we're done before dinner. I'm starving.”

I grinned. “You sound like Chet.”

“Hey, the dude has a point,” Joe said. “If you've got a high metabolism, you need to keep your energy up, you know?”