The Genius Thieves (3 page)
Read The Genius Thieves Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"Great!" Frank answered. "I'll be there!"
For the next couple of days Frank almost forgot about the computer crimes. It was all he could do to keep up with his classwork. After all, he wouldn't be much use as an undercover detective at Chartwell if he flunked out.
On Wednesday night he was buried in a paper-back copy of Henry V while Brad napped. At precisely 8:00 an alarm clock rang, and Brad sprang out of bed. "Okay, all rested up and ready to party!" he said, and then slammed Frank's book shut. "Let's put down Shakespeare and shake things up ourselves!"
"Sure," Frank said. I might as well, he thought. This'll be a good chance to meet potential suspects.
They walked to the student lounge, which was in the basement of the athletic building. Halfway there they could begin to hear music blaring and students laughing and talking.
Inside the packed room Frank recognized quite a few of the students from his classes. In the middle, some were dancing, and along the walls, others sat or tried to squeeze by one another. As they got themselves sodas from a machine, a thin guy with a checked shirt and old jeans came up to Brad.
"Hey, Brad," he said. "Have you seen Arnie?"
"No. Oh, Jed, this is our new roommate, Frank Kenyon. Frank, meet Jed Wilson." Frank looked hard at Jed — he had the feeling he'd seen him before. But he couldn't remember when or where.
Jed barely nodded at Frank before turning back to Brad. "Well, tell him I debugged our new program disk, okay?"
"Sure, Jed," Brad said. As Jed went back into the crowd, Brad murmured to Frank, "Definitely the other side of the tracks, if you know what I mean. His father fills potholes for a living."
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw a hand reaching up for Brad's back pocket. "Watch it, Brad!" he shouted.
Brad spun around and looked down at a group of students sitting on the floor. One of them was pulling his hand away. He gave Brad a broad grin.
"Trilby, you crook!" said Brad, laughing. "You'll never have enough money!"
Trilby. This must be the banker's son Dwight, Frank thought. Brad slapped the guy playfully on the back and walked away. Obviously, they were just kidding around. But Frank kept an eye on Dwight Trilby. He had a jutting jaw and slick, jet-black hair, and he was bragging loudly about something he had done in football practice. Frank noticed immediately that Dwight's blazer had a button missing.
Dwight did a double-take when he noticed Frank staring at his jacket. "Checking out the merchandise? Let me know if there's something you like," he said sarcastically. His friends laughed nervously.
This guy looks like trouble, Frank thought. But out loud he said, "Thanks, I will." Then he turned to follow Brad.
"Hey! New boy! I haven't finished talking to you!"
Frank's jaw tensed. Cool it, he said to himself. The last thing you need right now is a fight with your major suspect.
He faced Dwight. "Look, I'm — " he began. But he got no further. One of the dancers gyrating behind him chose that moment to try a triple spin. The kid fell against Frank, making him stumble forward. Some of Frank's soda sloshed out of the can—and splashed down into Dwight's face. "Oh, great," Frank groaned softly.
With an enraged roar, Dwight rose to face Frank. And rose—and rose some more. The room fell silent, except for the thumping dance music. And Frank found himself staring up at Chartwell Academy's star six-foot-four linebacker.
"Sorry! It was an accident!" Frank said, although he knew it wouldn't do much good.
With his left hand, Dwight grabbed Frank's arm and hauled him forward so that their noses were almost touching. "It didn't look like an accident from my perspective," he growled.
"Listen, I really don't want to fight," Frank said.
"Oh, no? Well, that's a shame, because I do." And Dwight's right fist shot forward to connect with Frank's jaw.
FRANK HAD SEEN the blow coming, so he was able to twist a little and take it at an angle. When it hit, he let his head snap back, so that Dwight's fist only glanced along his jaw. Still, the impact made his ears ring.
Frank sagged. Dwight grinned and shifted his hold for another strike. As he felt the movement, Frank brought his own hand up and let it fall in a slicing karate blow to Dwight's wrist.
With a yell, Dwight let go of Frank. As Frank jumped backward, he saw the murderous expression on the football player's face. There was no way Dwight would let him go now, Frank decided. He'd just have to try to wind it up with as little damage as possible. He sighed. "Oh, well, I tried," he muttered as they squared off.
Dwight lunged at Frank with a powerful left jab. Frank blocked the punch with his right arm. Then Dwight came back with a strong right. Frank ducked skillfully and Dwight's fist sliced the air. The force of his own weight made him fly into the crowd.
"Knock it off, Trilby!" Brad called out, and he tried to grab Dwight. But Dwight was steaming, and he threw off Brad's grip in one powerful motion. Frank waited for Dwight across the room in a karate stance.
"Oh, I hate these martial-arts types," Dwight said under his breath. "I think you'd do better to try prayer instead!" With that, he hurled himself toward Frank in a flying tackle.
When Frank saw two hundred and fifteen pounds of Grade-A American muscle leaping toward him, he did the only sensible thing. He gracefully stepped out of the way.
Dwight Trilby went sailing headfirst past Frank and into the jukebox. The speakers gave out a ripping noise as the needle scraped along the record inside the machine.
The students all rushed to surround Dwight as he lay motionless on the floor. "Is he all right?" someone asked.
"Is he all right?" said Brad. "What about the jukebox?"
Brad and some of his friends brought Dwight outside so he could get some fresh air. A female student watched them take Dwight away and looked admiringly at Frank. "Not many people get the best of Trilby," she said.
Frank gave her a humorless grin. "Yeah, I can see it's going to do wonders for my reputation around here." This was going to make it ten times harder to investigate Dwight Trilby!
He stride outside with Brad, where Dwight was coming to. Mr. Castigan had been called to the scene and was standing over Dwight.
"Kenyon!" Castigan called out as he looked up from Dwight. "Are you responsible for this?"
"In a sense, sir," Frank answered.
"With all due respect, sir," Brad put in, "I think the jukebox did most of the damage." He grinned at them both and then sauntered back inside.
Mr. Castigan looked angry for a second and then walked closer to Frank. He winked slyly and said under his breath, "Trilby had it coming. But stay away from him next time, okay? He's been acting pretty strange lately."
Frank thoughtfully agreed and walked back to Mansfield Hall.
***
Back in Bayport, Joe and Fenton Hardy were picking up new clues in the Bayport Bank and Trust thefts. On Monday and Wednesday there had been two more computer money transfers. Both fit the pattern of the first crimes, except that they were for smaller amounts of money now.
By Thursday morning Mr. Trilby's patience was wearing thin. "I don't care if you're a board member," he shouted into the phone. "I can't freeze all the money in the bank! I'll have to explain everything to the customers, and they'll all pull their money out. Don't worry, I've got an expert working on it — "
At that moment, Mr. Trilby's secretary ushered Joe and Fenton into his office. The banker wearily said goodbye to the board member and hung up the phone.
"We came as soon as we got your call, Mr. Trilby," Fenton Hardy said.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure," Trilby said hurriedly. "I have some good news, fellows. My computer expert, Waldo McKay, may have cracked the case."
Joe and Fenton sat down to listen. "These computer pirates have been extremely crafty. They've been waiting until the precise moment that the computer system is on the brink of overloading—which usually happens around lunch-time, when the bank is busiest. Then they strike. Something seems to seize the computer. We don't know what."
"So it appears to be like any other temporary malfunction," Mr. Hardy said.
"That's right," Mr. Trilby said. "And so much memory is being tied up in the computer that it's almost impossible to trace the source."
"What happens when the computers come back on?" Joe asked.
"That's where Waldo comes in," Trilby said. His eyes were flashing with an optimism Joe hadn't seen before. "The pirates have been so careful in encoding their transfers that Waldo says it'll take months to figure out where all the stolen money went—all except for the last theft."
"He traced that one?" Joe said excitedly.
"He sure did," Trilby answered, rubbing his hands. "Either the crooks blundered or Waldo was on the ball, but he traced a transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars to a nearby account. Immediately after that the crooks must have gotten wise, because the money was transferred out of that account to someplace he couldn't trace, possibly overseas."
"What was the first account?" Joe asked.
"A small electronics firm based in Kirkland. The company's name is ChipShape, Inc."
"Did Waldo get the name of the owner?" Fenton asked.
"I was in the process of finding that out when you arrived, gentlemen," he said. He turned back to his computer; the screen was lit up with a list of names that looked like the Yellow Pages. "I've accessed a list of local Kirkland businesses. Now let's call up 'Electronics'—" He punched a couple of keys. "And now, 'Kirkland'—" A couple more keys. "Here it is! ChipShape!"
He pressed two more keys and the screen glowed with information about ChipShape.
Trilby read aloud from the screen: " 'Small electronic parts, computer software — '"
"That makes sense," said Joe.
" 'Mail order, limited retail, sales eleven thousand two hundred and fifty dollars,' " Trilby continued. "Hmm, a small company. Let's see, 'Founder, owner, and president Trilby stopped reading and looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Who is it, Mr. Trilby?" Fenton asked. "Someone you know?"
Trilby kept staring at the screen and said softly, "It's a friend of my son's at Chartwell — Jed Wilson."
It took no time for Joe to call Frank and give him the news. Frank was stunned.
"He owns a company?" said Frank. "I met him last night! He's younger than you are!"
"Well, you know, these computer geniuses start early," Joe replied over the phone. "His parents probably have custody of the money."
"Okay, thanks. I have to run and meet a teacher for office hours," Frank said.
"Office hours?" Joe was surprised. If Frank needed help with classwork,' he was kind of glad he didn't get in to Chartwell.
"It's unbelievable, Joe. They're teaching stuff we have never learned at Bayport. I feel like I'm in college."
"I figured that would happen," said Joe with a little triumph in his voice. "That's why I purposely messed up that entrance exam!"
"Right." Frank shook his head, hung up, and raced over to Mr. Castigan's office. After a half hour of discussing chemistry, he and Castigan grabbed a basketball and ran out to the courts near one of the school parking lots.
For a forty-year-old man, Castigan wasn't bad. What he lacked in quickness, he made up for in rebounding strength and dead-accurate jump shots. After fifteen minutes, the score was tied 8-8.
"Time out!" Castigan called. "You're wearing me out, Kenyon! Taking advantage of a tired old man!"
Frank laughed. "Give me a break, Mr. Castigan! I never thought anyone your age could block my lay-ups!"
"Well, don't put me in a nursing home yet! Okay, your ball. Next basket wins."
Frank put the ball into play. He dribbled to the top of the key, with Castigan close behind him. Then he faked left, dribbled behind his back, moved to the baseline, and jumped. The ball flew out of his hands, but only traveled about two inches before Castigan whacked it out toward the foul line.
"Pretty good move, Castigan!" Frank said, panting.
Now Castigan had the ball. As he dribbled it, he challenged Frank, face-to-face. In both of their eyes was fierce concentration. Frank darted his hand out for the ball. Castigan bounced it out of his reach. Frank retreated. Castigan looked right but moved left. Frank was thrown off balance but scrambled to follow Castigan as he darted toward the basket.
Neither of them noticed the battered old sedan that was coming close to them, swerving all over the parking lot at top speed.
Castigan went under for the lay-up. Frank caught up with him and jumped up to block the shot. Castigan barreled into Frank, and Frank went tumbling out of bounds—right into the path of the speeding sedan!
FRANK SPRAWLED ON the ground, two feet from the careening car.
"Look out!" Mr. Castigan shouted.
Screeeeech! The sedan skidded to a stop inches from Frank's face. He rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet.
The noon sun glared off the tinted windshield, making it impossible to see who was driving. Somebody's on to me, Frank thought, and he braced himself to run. The car would probably try to pull out of the parking lot—or come after him again.
Instead, the driver's door opened. He's probably got a gun! Frank dove onto the ground behind the passenger side. He watched for the driver's feet under the car. He figured the only thing he could do was keep the car between himself and the killer.
The driver's feet swung out and hit the ground. Red high-top sneakers.
"Wow! Still stops on a dime, eh, Mr. Castigan — just like the car in Speed Racer! Hey, where's Frank?"
Frank recognized the voice. He rose and looked over the car.
It was Arnie.
Castigan's arms were folded tightly, and he looked at Arnie with a mixture of shock and relief. "Young man, do you have any idea — "
Arnie slammed his door shut and saw Frank staring at him from the other side. "Kenyon!" he said. "What is this, some sort of hide-and-seek? Did you forget about lunch today?"