Kickoff to Danger (10 page)

Con shrugged. “Ah, well. If we're lucky, we may not have to worry about that.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“I probably shouldn't say this.” Con glanced around again. “But I think I can depend on you two to keep your mouths shut. There's been some good news from the hospital.”

“About Biff?” Joe said excitedly.

“Keep your voice down, son!” Riley hissed.

He lowered his own voice again. “Discussing the case, the doctors have stopped talking about
if
Biff will regain consciousness. It's become
when.”

Joe smiled. “So, sooner or later, you'll be able to ask Biff what happened.”

Con nodded. “And when that happens, I expect a lot of people may be changing their stories.”

Frank looked thoughtful. “So you still may be able to clear this up without taking Chet to court,” he said.

“Let's just say I'm not a hundred percent convinced the boy is guilty,” Con replied.

“We've got a little mystery of our own,” Frank said. “Which may happen to tie in with yours.”

He explained what had happened outside the school.

Joe stared in surprise. He hadn't expected Frank to report the incident to the police.

Con's face grew red as he listened. “That was a very stupid stunt for someone to pull,” he said angrily. “The Shaw girl could have been seriously injured.”

He looked at the boys. “Do you want to make an official complaint?”

“Would it do much good?” Joe asked. “If you catch somebody—which right now is a big if—they didn't actually hurt anyone. From what I've seen, kids seem to get off pretty lightly when the cases go to court.”

Con nodded silently, a little embarrassed. “But it might throw a good scare into whoever did it.”

“Except we only have suspicions about who that was,” Joe said. “Unless you're going to fingerprint that board—”

“There's an idea,” Frank suddenly broke in.

Joe stared at his brother again. “I was joking!”

“Well, I think fingerprints and throwing a good scare might work well together.” An evil smile slowly stretched his lips as he leaned toward the police officer.

“An official complaint probably won't get us very far. What I'd like, Con,” he said, “is a little unofficial help. If you can give it . . .”

Joe and Frank rode in the rear of the police cruiser.

This wasn't the first time Joe had found himself back there. He never liked it, though. Yes, civilians sometimes wound up in the back of patrol cars—crime victims, observers from the press, important people on inspections.

The backseat was usually reserved for criminals, though. Joe always got a feeling of being caged whenever he sat here.

There was also the faint perfume of low-life in the air. Drunks had probably barfed all over this seat.

Almost unconsciously, Joe found himself rub
bing his fingers together. Give me some nice, clean coal dust any day, he thought.

Sitting in the front seat, Con Riley must have caught Joe's expression. “I got the cleanest car I could,” he assured the boys. “Believe me. We give these babies a good going-over.”

The smell of disinfectant was thick when the boys had gotten in, which made Joe wonder what they'd had to clean away.

Perhaps to take their minds off the smell, Con went into a war story. “Worst stink we ever had in a car happened when I was just starting out. Oh, it was awful—like rotting flesh! My partner and I were going crazy. We cleaned the backseat so much, they had to put a new cover on.”

Joe couldn't help himself. “And?” he asked.

“Turned out it came from
under
the front seat.” Con laughed. “A guy from one of the other shifts had stashed a liverwurst sandwich down there and forgotten about it. After a couple of weeks—”

“Con!” Frank Hardy interrupted in a strangled voice. “Do you think you could open these windows an inch or two?”

It wasn't a long drive, and soon the car pulled up in front of Wendell Logan's house.

“I hope you're right about this,” Joe muttered as they got out and walked toward the house, leaving Con in the cruiser.

“I think we've got our guy,” Frank said. “Whoever slung that beam around had to be big and strong. He also had to be the type who acts first and thinks later.”

“That certainly fits our pal Wendell,” Joe said.

“We've even got a motive. I expect he was pretty steamed at the way you handled him tonight in the locker room.”

Joe shook his head. “Better me handling him than Logan manhandling
me.”

They were at the door, so Frank rang the bell.

Wendell's mother answered. “Hello, boys.”

“Hi, Mrs. Logan. Could we see Wendell for a moment?” Frank asked.

Mrs. Logan glanced at her watch. “We were just about to sit down to dinner.”

Frank raised his hands. “It will just take a couple of minutes, I promise. We'll wait for him here.”

“All right.” Mrs. Logan headed back inside. “Wendell!” she called.

A moment later a scowling Wendell Logan appeared at the door. “What do you two want . . .” The big guy's voice trailed off.

As the door opened, Con Riley started up the red flasher on top of the patrol car. In the blinking red light, Logan's face went a little pale.

“Ever hear of fingerprints, Wendell?” Frank Hardy asked.

“Some interesting ones turned up on the board
that trashed our windshield,” Joe said. “Interesting enough that the cops want a set of yours.”

“They may even try comparing them to a couple of partial prints on the shovel that was used to whack Biff Hooper,” Frank put in.

Wendell Logan's rough, tough, bully mask slipped big-time. Now he just looked like a scared kid.

“I just meant for that board to land near your van!” he said. “I didn't think it would go that far!”

“That seems to be your problem in life,” Joe said. “I bet you didn't mean to go as far as you went with Phil Cohen when you wound up knocking him down the stairs.”

“There was a girl in the front seat of the van,” Frank said grimly. “You're just lucky she wasn't hurt. Otherwise, that cop would be taking you in for assault.”

Now Wendell Logan's face began looking a little green.

“Know what this makes me wonder?” Joe said. “Could things have gone a little too far in the furnace room? I saw the way you were looking at Biff after he helped me out on the stairway. Maybe you saw Biff helping those debate nerds and reacted the same way. For a big guy like you, all it would take was one swing—”

“No! I—I didn't do it!” Tears began to well up in the big guy's eyes. He was almost babbling.

“You know how those big brains always look
down on us. Some of the guys on the team just wanted to shake them up. And, yeah, Terry wanted a piece of Dan Freeman.” The flood of words stumbled for a moment. “Me—I was hoping for a shot at Morton. I give a hundred and ten percent for the team, but everyone likes him better.”

Maybe that's because, unlike you, he doesn't throw his weight around, Joe thought.

“Anyway, I knew where he'd be. He thought we were just going to jump out and scare the nerds a little. I got in one good punch, but then I lost him in the dark.”

Wendell leaned forward, no longer looming. He had a pleading expression on his face. “But don't you see, I was
after
him. I couldn't have gotten to the furnace room
ahead
of him.”

Joe wasn't so sure of Logan's argument. Remembering the maze of passages, he thought it was quite possible for someone to get turned around, running through the dark. A pursuer could take a different route and actually get in front of the guy he was chasing.

On the other hand, Joe had to believe that they'd cracked Wendell Logan's tough-guy front. Either he was telling the truth about not hitting Biff, or he was a tremendous actor.

Frank took the direct approach. “So who do you think did it?”

“I don't
know!”
From the way the words burst
from Logan's lips, it was obvious he'd been asked the question too many times. The look in his eyes showed he'd been thinking a lot about it, too.

“I've tried to go over the whole thing. Who was down in the basement—and where they were,” he admitted, rubbing a big hand over his forehead as if the effort made his brain hurt.

“And what did you come up with?” Frank wanted to know.

“The best thing would be to say one of the nerds got Biff.” Logan's lips twitched in disgust. “But they're all such wimps! I can't imagine one being able to pick up a shovel, much less swing it at somebody.”

“But that would mean it was somebody from the team,” Joe said.

Logan frowned and wouldn't or couldn't meet their eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed. “The problem is, things were so confused down there. I know where I started out—I was right beside Terry. But after that, well, we were running around, chasing people.”

He threw his arms out in different directions.

“This way, that way…it was dark, and you know how everything is interconnected down there. Hallways lead into rooms that lead into other hallways.”

“So you don't even know where Terry Golden was?” Joe pressed.

Logan still looked down, but his expression was
scared. “I—I couldn't tell you. We split up when I went after Chet. Next time I saw Golden, he was telling us to get out of there.”

“When was that?” Frank asked. “And why?”

Logan shrugged. “He said he heard somebody talking about the cops. We were out of there fast! I was blocks away when I heard the sirens.”

The Hardys looked at each other. Frank had sent Joe to get an ambulance
and
the police. The door to the furnace room had been open. If Terry Golden heard that, he'd been close to the scene where Biff was downed.

It looks like Logan suspects Golden, but he has no proof, Joe thought. There's nothing more to get out of him now.

Frank and Joe returned to the police car, and Con turned off the flasher. He gave the boys a lift back to their car.

While they rode, Frank and Joe passed along what Logan had told them.

Joe could see Con's face in the rearview mirror. The officer was frowning.

“That's a little more than we got,” Con had to admit. I'm afraid it still doesn't tell us much, though.”

“Just makes it a little easier for the guys to play dumb,” Frank said. “Everything was so confused down there, they really don't know who was doing what.”

“Whoever hit the Hooper boy knew what he was doing.” Con's voice was grim.

“Did he?” Frank asked. “Think about it. You're chased through the dark, stumbled across a weapon, and grabbed it up. Somebody suddenly appears. You swing—”

“That's pretty much the way certain people figured it for your friend Chet,” Con pointed out.

“It also seems to say that one of the people being messed with swung the shovel,” Joe said. “Logan didn't think that was likely.”

He hated what he was about to say, but it had to come out. “But somebody from the team could have handled that shovel. I think Logan—and maybe some of the other Golden Boys—are afraid that Terry Golden did it.”

“That would be one explanation for the way they're all hanging together,” Riley said.

“Or it could be that they're all scared about being punished,” Frank put in.

“At least we know where two of those kids started out,” Con said.

“And maybe where one ended up,” Joe stubbornly added. “If Golden was warning people about the cops coming, that means he heard Frank and me talking. And it means he was near the furnace room.”

“If he's the one who took Biff out, he'd be thinking of cops anyway,” Frank said.

“Now, where exactly are you parked?” Con asked before they could get into an argument. By now they'd reached downtown Bayport.

Con shook his head when he saw the gaping hole where the windshield should have been. “You fellas be careful getting this thing home, now,” he warned. “Do you want me to drive ahead?”

“Just what we need,” Frank muttered as he got out. “A parade.”

“I don't think we need a police escort, thank you, Con,” Joe said. “We'll just take it easy.”

Con nodded and wished the boys good night.

Frank got back behind the wheel. Joe took the passenger's seat. Soon they were heading for home.

“We probably should have called home,” Frank said, flipping on the headlights. “I hope the folks aren't getting nervous.”

Joe didn't answer.

“What's the problem?” Frank asked.

“You were pretty quick to dump on what I was saying to Con,” Joe complained. “I didn't like your suggesting that it could be somebody from the team.”

Frank gave him a look. “No, but you liked accusing Terry Golden.”

“He's a two-faced sleaze who likes to blindside people,” Joe replied hotly. “You've seen it, and I've been on the receiving end. And, no, I didn't think
it was such a bad idea to get that fact out there.”

Frank looked ready to give Joe an argument. But he broke off, peering into the rearview mirror.

“Funny,” he said. “The car behind us turned off the road.”

“What's the big deal about that?” Joe was still ready for that argument.

“Look where we are.” Frank gestured out through the nonexistent windshield.

He'd been taking a quiet route home, and this section was downright dead. Joe knew the area. The proper name was Fennerman Boulevard. But everyone called it Fenderbender Alley. The street was lined with cheap auto-body shops, and behind those, junkyards.

It was a good place to go if you needed to replace a fender, a door, or if your old car lost a hubcap. But that was basically a daytime business. “Midnight auto shop” generally had another meaning—a place where stolen cars were chopped up to be sold as parts.