The Genius Thieves (2 page)

Frank threw his books onto the backseat and drove home. As he pulled into the Hardys' driveway, Joe ran out the front door.

"Hey, want to go to the movies?" Joe called out.

"What about studying?" "I've been hitting the books all day. I need a break."

"Any news about Deep River, Montana?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, Dad says everything's set with his friend. He's sent the transcripts to Chartwell. We'll be Frank and Joe Kenyon. And Dad called Chartwell to set up our exam for next Thursday.

They had a couple of transfers,' so they have two places. We'll have to be juniors, though. We're as good as in!"

"I hope so," Frank said. It was already Thursday—only a week from the test—and he wondered if he could cram enough in. He gave Joe the van keys. "You go ahead."

"All right," Joe said, shaking his head in disbelief. "But I think you're overdoing the studying bit."

For the next few days Frank pored over his textbooks. Once in a while Joe sat down and leafed through them, too. But he thought he'd have no trouble passing the test.

The exam was to be given in a lecture room at Chartwell Academy, in the town of Kirkland. To get there, Frank and Joe had to drive on back roads they never knew existed. The town was only an hour away, but it seemed like light-years. As they approached Kirkland, the landscape began to change. Neat little suburban houses gave way to sprawling old estates with manicured front lawns, surrounded by tall woods. Some of the houses could barely be seen at the end of long, winding driveways.

"Big bucks, huh?" Joe said.

"I guess so," answered Frank. "I'll bet the school is just like this."

Frank was right. In the distance they saw a tall water tower with the name Kirkland on it. They soon reached the entrance gate. Latin words in gold-painted wrought iron were suspended in an arch between two stone pillars, which flanked the drive. Among the words were Academia Chartwelliensis.

"You need to read Latin just to find the place," muttered Joe.

Frank drove slowly through the campus as Joe directed him from a map. On both sides of them graceful lindens lined the road. Beyond the trees, neatly dressed students walked to their classes on brick pathways that meandered through wide, freshly cut lawns. The buildings were all made of brick or stone, and it looked as if they'd been there for hundreds of years.

They finally found the right lecture hall and were met by an impatient-looking teacher in a tweed coat. "Ah, the Kenyons, I presume," he said. "Welcome to Chartwell. Please sit. You will have two hours for the exam, and we will call you with the results tomorrow."

Minutes into the exam, Frank realized that his studying hadn't really helped. Numbers, dates, and facts were all jumbled in his mind. At the end, he had to rush to finish the final essay.

Afterward Frank and Joe got into the van and sat still for a moment, trying to recover. "Well, it wasn't too bad," Joe said, speaking first. "I did all the easy questions and then went back."

"Good idea." Frank wanted to kick himself for not thinking of that. Sometimes his brother deserved more credit than he gave him, Frank thought. He sat in stony silence as they drove home.

The next day Frank stayed at home so he wouldn't miss the phone call. Joe disappeared for the day, and when he returned at six o'clock he found his worried brother still close to the phone.

"You've got to loosen up about this, Frank," Joe said. "We don't have anything to prove. Let's keep our minds on the crime."

"Competitive spirit, I guess," Frank said. "I'm not really that nerv — "

Ring - g - g - g! At the sound of the bell, Frank sprang for the phone. Joe had grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cabinet and walked past Frank into the living room to watch TV.

"Hello?" He heard Frank's voice from the kitchen. "Yes ... oh, great! Thank you ... What! ... No, I'll tell him. Goodbye."

Frank returned to the living room. Joe looked up from the baseball game he was watching on TV and said, "What'd I tell you? We made it, right?"

"Sort of," Frank said.

"What do you mean, 'sort of?" Joe asked, his mouth full of pretzels.

"Well — I made it. They want me to start on Monday."

Joe's mouth fell open. "What? I aced that exam! They must have made a mistake!"

"Call them yourself if you don't believe me," Frank said.

As Joe stormed into the kitchen and picked up the phone, Frank stretched out and watched an incredible bases-loaded double play.

That next Monday Frank toted his suitcase through the Chartwell campus on the way to the admissions office. In front of him a couple of leaves from a towering maple tree fell on an old statue of the school's founder, George Howe Chartwell. In front of a dorm, Frank stopped to tuck his striped shirt into his brand-new khaki pants.

For a campus of five hundred students, it seemed awfully quiet, he thought. The kids must have to study all day.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the sounds of shouting above him. Frank looked up. There appeared to be some sort of a fight going on in one of the fourth-floor rooms; Frank couldn't see much from his angle, but he could hear through the open casement window. There was a blood-curdling shriek, and then, as Frank watched in horror, a body came hurtling down from the open window—falling directly at him!

FRANK THREW HIMSELF off the path and tumbled into a flower bed. He heard the body thud to the ground just beside him.

He sprang to his feet and immediately heard the sound of laughter.

In every dorm window, Chartwell students were slapping one another on the back and laughing hysterically.

Frank rushed over to the limp body and realized what had happened. It was a dummy, dressed in old pants and a wool sweater that said "Winchester School."

Of course, Frank thought. It's football season, and Winchester is their big rival. "Killing" this dummy must be some sort of crazy prep-school tradition.

Frank smiled and waved, all the while wondering what kind of weird place he'd gotten himself into. He brushed himself off as well as he could and continued on to the admissions office. He was met at the door by a student with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

"You must be the transfer student. Kenyon, right?" the student asked, shaking Frank's hand.

"That's right. And you?"

"Pierce. Lloyd Pierce. I'm a junior, too. Also a part-time file clerk here, as part of the work-study program. Congratulations on getting into Chartwell. Don't tell anyone, but I saw your exam. Terrific essay!"

"Thanks," Frank said.

"Too bad about your brother, though," Lloyd said, continuing. "Anyway, let me introduce you to the admissions officers, and they'll give you your class schedule, room assignment, and linens. And if you ever need anything or have any questions, just call me at five-five-five-two-three-oh-one. All the rooms have phones, and the numbers all begin with five-five-five — " Just then his eyes caught the mud stains on Frank's new pants. "And laundry pickup is on Wednesday," he said with a smile.

"Oh! I, uh — lost my footing and fell in a flower bed," Frank said. Lloyd seemed all right. If most of the students are like this, he thought, maybe this place isn't so bad after all.

Frank had arrived too late for his morning classes after going to admissions, but his afternoon classes would begin in an hour and a half. He had plenty of time to drop off his linens and luggage at his dorm, Mansfield Hall.

Mansfield was a sturdy red-brick building with a solid oak-paneled entrance foyer. Frank had had visions of polite, well-dressed students silently grinding away at homework. But the sound of earsplitting rock 'n' roll rang out instead. Frank went in and walked up to the third floor. The loudest rock was coming from his room.

"Nobody can do this to me!"

Frontal Lobe. Just what he needed! With a sigh, he opened the door. Inside, singing and dancing to the music, was a tall, gangly student with an orange headband around a bush of curly hair. Popcorn was spilling out of a large pot on a hot plate in the corner. And in the center of the room, a computer screen flashed a colorful graphics display of a car chase that said "Speed Racer."

"Uh, hello — hello!" Frank said, practically shouting above the music.

"Oh, baby, baby, ba — " Suddenly, Frank's roommate stopped singing and saw both Frank and the popcorn. "Uh-oh," he said. With one hand he tried to turn down his cassette player while using the other to save the burning popcorn. Frank put down his suitcase and linens and helped out.

"It's a good thing you weren't Brad," the roommate said. "He doesn't like Frontal Lobe—"

A voice behind them interrupted, " 'Doesn't like' isn't really accurate, Arnie. 'Hates passionately' is closer to the truth."

Frank turned to see a blond, athletic-looking guy wearing tennis whites. "Brad Rogers," he said, extending a hand. "Has my roommate remembered to introduce himself to you?"

"Oh, sorry!" the curly-haired student said. "I'm Arnie Nofziger. You must be Frank."

"That's right. I transferred from — "

"Deep River, Montana," Brad said, cutting in. "Yes, we heard all about you. You know, my ancestors settled Snapoose, the town next to yours. Have you heard of the Snapoose Rogerses?"

"Uh, the name sounds familiar," Frank answered.

"Of course it does. They own practically everything there," Brad said with a smirk. "What's your next class, Frank?"

Frank looked at his schedule. "English lit., in about an hour," he said.

"Me, too. Let me shower and change, and then I'll show you around campus before class. Meanwhile, if you happen to be into the wonderful world of calculators and floppy disks, perhaps you and Arnie can find something to talk about."

Brad took his towel and went into the hallway toward the showers. Arnie held out his pot of popcorn. "Want some?" he asked.

Frank looked at the blackened kernels. "No thanks," he said.

For about five minutes Arnie didn't say a word; he just worked furiously at his computer and ate burned popcorn. Frank made up his empty bed and changed into a clean pair of pants.

Arnie then swung around quickly in his chair and said, "You know, I can show you around campus, too! I know this place better than Brad ever will. Did you know there's a system of tunnels that connects all the buildings on the entire campus? I'm the only one who knows how they all hook up."

"Great," said Frank.

"I can show you the town, too," Arnie continued. "Upperclassmen are allowed limited travel during lunch, which means we can avoid the dining-hall slop and go into Kirkland. There's a Speedy Burger there that has a two-for-one special on Thursdays! And I have a car on campus this semester." A proud grin spread across his face. "I learned how to drive from computer games. My favorite is Speed Racer."

While Arnie was talking, Brad breezed into the room, his hair soaking wet. "Yes, and that's why no one will ride with him," he said.

Arnie stood up and thrust out his chin proudly. "That's not true. You'll come into town with me on Thursday for lunch, won't you, Frank?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, Arnie." He hoped it was the right decision.

When Brad was ready, he walked with Frank through the campus. "That's the arts center, where you meet the most girls," Brad said, pointing to a new marble-and-glass building. "And there's the science laboratory, where you can get the best sleep. The indoor tennis courts—you can usually find me there. And the student lounge, where there's a party Wednesday night. You'll come, of course."

"And the computer terminals?" Frank asked, keeping his mind on the mission.

But Brad wasn't listening. "Oh, yes!" he said. "I almost forgot. Dad and his wife would like to have you for dinner Friday night. They always have to check out my roommates. Dad will send a limo for us, so it'll be easy. You've got to say yes. After bringing Arnie home the last time, I have to show up with someone normal!"

Frank finally said yes, and the tour of the school ended at the building where their English class met. Brad and Frank went in and sat down. Frank looked around and was surprised to recognize one other face — the student he'd met at the admissions office, Lloyd Pierce.

The teacher, a Mr. Osborn, was dark-haired with a heavy beard and a potbelly. He peered from behind his wire-rimmed glasses and said, "Now, how many of you have read Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth, Part One?" Immediately hands shot up all around the classroom. Frank looked around in disbelief. He'd barely heard of the play—it had taken him half a year to get through Hamlet in high school!

"Good. Just about everyone," the teacher said, continuing. "Tell me, how do you see this play in terms of the current American view of nationalism?" Again, students were bursting to try to answer the question, and Frank felt completely lost.

He had the same feeling in social studies, and again in math. By the time he went to his last class, chemistry, he was wondering whether entering Chartwell was really the best way to go about solving this case. After all, they had no proof that the criminals were operating out of Chartwell — they only had that one button as a clue.

The teacher bounded into the room with a confident smile and went straight to the blackboard. "All right," he said. "What I'm about to write will probably look like chicken scratchings, so yell if you don't understand something. My feeling is, if it seems like a stupid question, that means it's probably a good one."

This teacher was friendly and energetic. Frank liked him immediately. At least he didn't make Frank feel like an idiot.

After class the teacher walked up to Frank as he was gathering his books. "Welcome to chemistry class, Frank. I'm Jim Castigan."

"Your name sounds familiar," said Frank.

"Yes, I signed your acceptance letter," Castigan said, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he smiled. "You see, I'm also the dean of students, so you can call me if you have any questions at all about Chartwell."

"Forget Chartwell. How about chemistry?" Frank said.

Castigan chuckled. "Come to my office hours on Thursday at eleven A. M.," he said. Then he looked at Frank as if he were sizing him up. "And afterward, if you're interested, I usually take these old bones out to the basketball court."