The Genius Thieves (5 page)

The car pulled into the circular driveway of a huge glass-and-steel building with fountains lit up in front. Brad led Frank into the mirrored elevator. A uniformed elevator operator brought them up to a floor labeled "PH."

"That stands for penthouse—forty-seventh floor," Brad said. "Hope you're not afraid of heights."

They took a left out of the elevator. At the end of the hall, a woman in an apron called out, "Hello, boys!" A spicy, welcoming smell followed her through the open door to greet them.

"Hi," Brad said, sniffing the air. "What's cooking?"

"Aren't you going to introduce your friend, Bradley?"

Frank smiled and stuck out his hand. "Hello, Mrs. Rogers. I'm Frank Hardy."

The woman looked blank and Brad guffawed. "Frank, this is Amelia — she's our cook. Come on, I'll introduce you to the folks."

Just then a tall, silver-haired man in a navy-blue blazer appeared in the front hallway. Next to him was a trim, elegantly dressed woman. "Ah, boys, you're here! Marvelous!" he said. "Hello, Frank, I'm Malcolm Rogers, and this is Brad' s stepmother, Joan "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Frank said.

"Likewise," Mrs. Rogers said. "Do come in and make yourself at home."

Home was the last place this looked like, Frank thought. More like a museum. The walls were covered with huge framed oil paintings, each one separately lit. Porcelain vases flanked the sofa, and a collection of antique figurines was displayed in a specially designed cabinet.

In a few minutes they all sat down to eat in the Rogerses' dining room, which had an incredible view of the river.

"I hear you're from Deep River, Montana, Frank," Mr. Rogers said after they had finished their crabmeat mousse.

"Born and raised there," Frank said as Amelia served their salad course.

"We have family in Snapoose, you know."

"Uh-huh. That's what Brad says."

"Yes. Tell me, is your family the Kenyons who own the livery stable?" Mr. Rogers asked.

"Uh, right! That's us!" Frank said and smiled.

During the main course of swordfish, the conversation moved on to school and what Frank planned to do when he graduated.

"So, what do you do, Mr. Rogers? For a living, I mean," Frank asked later.

Mr. Rogers chuckled. "Oh, not much of anything. Consultant to a few small companies, board member of a couple of banks. You know, Clairmont Bank, Bayport Bank and Trust — "

This wasn't something Frank expected to hear. "No kidding! I just opened my first checking account there—in the Bayport Bank. Do you think it's a good bank?"

"Why, yes, of course," Mr. Rogers answered.

"Safe? Up-to-date?" Frank went on questioning Mr. Rogers, watching for his reaction. "I understand they have a top-notch computer system."

"They do. It's the best," Mr. Rogers said, clipping his words. Then he abruptly raised his voice slightly and spoke toward the kitchen, "Amelia! We're ready for dessert now!"

He knows something. I can tell by the way he's acting, Frank thought. He excused himself from the table and looked at Brad. Brad pointed down the hall where the bathroom was.

On his way, Frank passed by Mr. Rogers's study. Piles of papers littered the desk. On some of them, he could see the words "Bayport Bank and Trust." Looking up and down the empty hallway first, he slipped inside the room.

Quickly and quietly, Frank riffled through a stack of computer printouts, looking for clues. But the columns of numbers just looked like gibberish. Finally he saw something at the bottom of the pile that caught his eye — a letter from Mr. Trilby, dated the day before. He pulled it out.

And, instantly, was aware of someone breathing behind him.

Frank spun around to see Oscar, the chauffeur, standing in the doorway. In his hand was a gun.

FRANK DROPPED DOWN behind-the desk. "Don't shoot! I'm Frank, a friend of the family!"

Oscar looked at him closely in the dimly lit room and put his gun down. "So you are," he said. "Terribly sorry, Frank, I didn't mean to scare you."

"That's all right," Frank replied, getting back onto his feet. "Do you always carry a loaded thirty-eight with you?"

"Oh, no, it's not loaded," Oscar said. "You see, Mr. Rogers requires that I carry it. He claims there's been a series of breakins in the building lately, though in my opinion, there's no need for bullets — "

"Yes, well, we don't get paid for our opinions, do we, Oscar?" came Mr. Rogers's voice from the doorway.

"Pardon me, sir!" Oscar said.

"You may go now, Oscar."

"Of course."

"And, Oscar — "

"Yes, sir?"

"Load the gun!"

As Oscar scurried out the door, Malcolm Rogers glared menacingly at Frank.

"So, Mr. Kenyon," he said, practically spitting out his words. "You have an interest in the Bayport Bank and Trust? In the computer system?"

Frank grinned. "Guess my curiosity got the better of me, sir."

"I see. Well, I am curious myself." He slammed the study door and slowly approached Frank. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am, Mr. Rogers. I'm Frank Kenyon."

"Of the Deep River Kenyons, eh?"

"That's right."

"The Deep River Kenyons who don't exist!"

"Hey, that's my mother and father you're talking about — " Frank said, protesting.

"Spare the theatrics, whoever-you-are," Mr. Rogers said, interrupting. "I had my people in Snapoose run a check on you. No one's ever heard the name Kenyon in Deep River. Now tell me what you're doing here!"

Frank looked squarely into his eyes. "You seem pretty desperate, running a check on your son's roommate. Are you afraid of something?" He reached for the pile of Bayport Bank and Trust papers.

The veins in Mr. Rogers's neck were popping out. "Out of my house!" he said, on the verge of exploding. "You will leave quietly. I will tell my family that you had a bad reaction to the fish and that you had to be sent home. Bradley will spend the night here. What happened between you and me is never to be mentioned to Bradley. It will disturb his concentration at school. Is that understood?"

"If you say so, sir." Frank shrugged, gazing steadily at Malcolm Rogers. This investigation was not going like clockwork. Not at all.

Rogers grabbed him by the collar and moved his face to within inches of Frank's. "I'll be keeping tabs on you at Chartwell, Mr. Kenyon. And you'd be wise not to have any contact with the Bayport Bank and Trust."

He let go, and Frank brushed himself off and walked into the hallway and out of the apartment.

"Next stop is Short Neck!"

The bus driver's voice woke Frank.' The ride back to Kirkland was far different from the limo ride. The bus had stopped at just about every small depot along the way and jangled over every rutted road.

Frank thought about Malcolm Rogers. Was he guilty of swindling his own bank? He wished he could have read the letter from Trilby.

After an hour and a half the bus pulled up to Chartwell's front gate. Frank was the only person to get off. In the darkness he noticed the outline of a large car or truck down the road. As he started through the gate, he heard a motor rev up. He looked back and saw the vehicle move slowly toward him with its headlights flashing.

Frank could see the newspaper headlines right then: "Wandering Preppy Killed by Night Stalker." He took off running into the campus.

A whistle pierced the air and then a shout followed. "Frank! It's me!"

Frank turned to see that the mysterious vehicle was a van — Frank and Joe's van!

"Joe?"

"No—Santa Claus," Joe said. "I'm a little early." Frank noticed that Joe's mustache was gone but the black spray was still in his hair.

"Where have you been?" Frank asked.

"You took the question right out of my mouth! I've been trying to call your room on our mobile phone for an hour!"

"It's a long story. But we have another suspect. Guy named Rogers — board member of the bank. His son is one of my roommates."

"Great," said Joe. "Maybe he's in cahoots with Jed Wilson. Dad and I analyzed Wilson's records and dug up a lot of info about him." "Do we have a case?"

"You bet. He's a real go-getter. Comes from a poor family in Rockchester. But the guy's a computer genius, so Chartwell gave him a full scholarship. He set up his own electronics and software company at age sixteen. A company that has been showing steadily increasing profits these past few months.

"Not to mention the deposit and withdrawal into his company's account of the twenty-five thousand dollars that was stolen from Bayport Bank and Trust last week."

"Looks like an open-and-shut case to me," Joe said.

"No, there are still too many loose threads," Frank answered. "Let me show you my notes. Come on, I'll drive the van into campus. You lay low—someone may recognize you."

"Not necessarily," Joe said. He reached into the backseat for a red, curly wig, which he slipped over his black-sprayed hair. Frank just looked at him blankly.

"It's the only disguise I could get on quick notice," Joe said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Terrific. Now you've gone from Dracula to Little Orphan Annie."

Frank drove slowly to the parking lot near his dorm and parked the van next to Arnie's car.

Then he and Joe walked along the darkened pathway to Mansfield Hall. They entered through the basement.

"You live in this dump?" Joe whispered. "It smells like a locker room."

Frank rolled his eyes and led Joe to the back stairwell. They took the stairs up to the third floor, where a different smell greeted them. Burning food. Frank and Joe looked down the hallway to see smoke puffing out from beneath Frank's door. Crazy Arnie and his popcorn again, Frank thought. At that moment the smoke alarm began shrieking.

Joe started running for the room, but Frank pulled him back.

"What are you doing, Frank?" Joe asked, furious. "Maybe someone's in there!"

Frank stood still, sniffing the air. "Wait a minute!"

"Come on, I was kidding about the locker-room smell—" But Joe caught a whiff of something unexpected, too. "I think I smell gasoline. We'd better move!" he said. "If this thing spreads, we're all in trouble!"

Joe ran to the door of Frank's room. Frank took out his keys. "We don't need them," said Joe, reaching for the doorknob. "It's open."

"Careful of the smoke!" Frank warned Joe. "Push the door open and stand back!"

As Joe threw the door open, smoke billowed out into the hallway. From on top of the door, a bucketful of clear fluid cascaded down.

Frank took one sniff of the air and lunged for his brother, pulling him back out of the way. "Get back, Joe!" he shouted. "We just found that gasoline!"

THE BUCKET CLATTERED to the floor, spilling liquid all over.

"What the — " Joe's eyes narrowed.

"Did you get any on you?" Frank asked.

"A little splashed on my wig—"

"Take it off and throw it up the hallway. Let's go!" Frank leaped across the puddle of gasoline and into his room.

He cupped one hand over his nose and made his way toward the flames that were shooting up through the smoke. Coughing violently, he tried to get to the sink. With his other hand, he waved away smoke and noticed the source of the fire — a pot on Arnie's hot plate!

Just as Frank felt as if his lungs were going to collapse, he heard a whooshing noise. "Wherever you are, Frank — duck!" It was Joe, with a fire extinguisher.

The chemical stream hit the hot plate and sent it flying off the table, which in turn yanked the plug out of the wall. Joe doused the flames and then spun around to see the doorway behind them blocked by a wall of fire. The puddle of gasoline had just caught.

Joe's fire extinguisher was low. But there was enough to put out the new blaze. Joe shot a steady stream at the doorway as he grabbed Frank and dragged him through the flames and into the hall. He propped his brother near an open window and told him to breathe deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fire trucks arriving below.

"Frank! Are you all right?"

Frank's eyes fluttered for a moment and then flicked open. "I'm okay," he said, coughing. He smiled and continued to cough. "But I'll never understand why people smoke cigarettes. Is that the Kirkland Fire Department I hear?"

"Plus half the school administration—in pajamas! Not to mention all the students in this dorm."

They heard heavy footsteps climbing the stairs behind them. Joe's wig was lying in the middle of the hallway, and as they looked at it, they realized Joe had to beat it. "If they catch you here, we'll both be in trouble!" Frank said.

Joe pushed past a small crowd of kids and disappeared down the far set of stairs.

An overweight fireman came puffing up to the third floor. "You start this fire?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"No," Frank said, rising to his feet. "I just put it out." He walked into his room with the fireman lumbering behind. As they examined the burned pot, the hallway filled up with students, fire fighters, and faculty.

"Can't tell what was in there, Chief," the fireman said, showing the pot to his supervisor. On the bottom were the remains of some badly charred objects.

"You did a good job with the fire extinguisher, young man," the fire chief said to Frank. "Do you have any idea how this all happened? Where are your roommates?"

"One's with his parents in the city. I don't know where the other is, but his car is in the parking lot."

"Well, when he comes back, I wish you'd give him a little talking to. You know, this year alone, over fifty percent of all campus fires — "

The hallway began to clear as Frank listened to a long lecture on fire safety. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Mr. Castigan, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Frank grabbed some clothes and his copy of Henry V, then spent the night on the floor in the room next door. The smell of smoke lingered throughout the night, despite the fact that the fire department had left a giant exhaust fan in the hallway.

The next morning Frank got ready for his study session with Sarah. As he left his neighbors' room, he saw a team of school workers laying a new carpet in the hallway.