The London Deception (12 page)

By noon rehearsal was in full swing. Emily Anderson
seemed inspired, Frank thought, and Chris took full command of the stage. The cast had pulled together as never before. It was sad to think it might all be over the next day.

Joe sat down next to Frank in the back row of the theater.

“Any luck finding Jennifer?” Frank asked.

“She's still not home and none of her neighbors have seen her,” Joe replied quietly. “I'm worried.”

Frank looked at his brother, trying to figure out how to broach a sensitive subject. “Joe, has it occurred to you that Jennifer might have been working
with
Neville Shah and has been fooling us all along? She may have disappeared because she stole the light board herself.”

“That could be true,” Joe replied, frowning. “But I'm hoping it's not.”

Joe heard a faint metallic tapping noise coming from somewhere in the theater. “What's that sound?”

“The heating system is probably ancient,” Frank guessed. “It's the pipes in the walls, filling with steam.”

Joe nodded, then asked, “Has Mr. Paul had any luck finding another light board?”

Frank shook his head. “It's not like a cup of sugar he can borrow from a neighbor,” Frank said. The words were just out of his mouth when an idea struck him. “Or maybe it is.”

Frank rose to his feet. “Hold down the fort, Joe, I'm going to try to borrow a cup of sugar.”

Frank left the theater. Joe started to follow, wanting
more of an explanation, but stopped when he saw Timothy Jeffries leading a man in a business suit out of his office. The man, whom Joe felt he had seen before, stood with Jeffries at the back of the theater, watching the rehearsal.

Jeffries was pointing to one thing and then another. Joe crouched and slipped along the partition between the lobby and the theater to see if he could hear what was being said.

“It's a grand space,” the man said.

“Yes, Mr. Blanco, with plenty of room for dancing,” Jeffries added.

Dancing? Was this a producer planning to do a musical, Joe wondered?

“Dancing isn't a main feature,” Blanco said. “It's mostly men.”

“Yes, of course. Now, here is the inspection slip. The electrical system, you can see, is up to code,” Jeffries told him.

Suddenly the two men rounded the corner into the lobby. Joe rose swiftly and walked directly toward them, so as not to look as if he was hiding. “Hello,” he said politely.

“Hello, young man,” Blanco said. “So sorry to hear your show won't be opening.”

“Not opening? I think it'll be one of the biggest hits of the year. I give it two thumbs up!” Joe said, enthusiastically thrusting his two thumbs into the air.

Joe watched Jeffries's face turn crimson as he tried to hold his temper.

“I thought you said—” Blanco began to question Jeffries.

“The producer has broken several rules stipulated in our rental agreement,” Jeffries assured him. “If they don't leave peaceably, I have the legal right to force them out.”

“But what have they done?' Blanco asked.

“We can talk more about that later this afternoon,” Jeffries said, pushing out a smile. “When there aren't feelings to be hurt.”

Jeffries led Blanco to the front door.

“So, I'll trot off to the bank and be back,” Blanco said to Jeffries.

Joe spotted a white limousine waiting at the curb. Like lightning, the memory of where he had seen Blanco shot into Joe's head. Blanco had been in the Lamb and Wolf Pub with John Moeller, the soccer star.

As Blanco slipped into the limo, Jeffries closed the theater door and strode angrily up to Joe.

“Stay out of my business,” he demanded. “Do you understand?”

“The man asked me a question and I answered,” Joe replied, undaunted. “Why are you showing the theater when you already have a show in it, Mr, Jeffries?”

“A show will
not
be in it if my state-of-the-art light board is not recovered,” Jeffries said with a smug smile.

“My brother is taking care of that right now,” Joe said confidently, trying to provoke a reaction.

“Well, well—” Jeffries stammered, clearly thrown. “Even so, the word in the theater community of London
is that
Innocent Victim
is a troubled show. In layman's terms, that means it has disaster written all over it. So I am looking for new renters now, so that my theater doesn't stay dark for another year after Mr. Kije-Paul's show closes.”

“Mr. Blanco is a theater producer?” Joe asked.

Again, Jeffries stumbled on his words. “He's, he's—yes!”

“What's the name of the musical?” Joe pressed on with the rapid questions.

“What musical?” Jeffries demanded.

“I heard you mention ‘room for dancing' to him,” Joe said.

“Yes, a musical,” Jeffries sputtered. “A musical, I don't know the name.”

From this short exchange, Joe now felt certain that Jeffries was hiding something and had some secret reason for wanting
Innocent Victim
out of his theater.

“Will you recommend Neville Shah again to do lights?” Joe asked the theater owner.

“Jennifer Mulhall knew he was an ex-convict as well,” Jeffries insisted. “We wanted to help him. Ask her if you don't believe me.”

“I would, but she's disappeared,” Joe said, staring into Jeffries' eyes.

Jeffries drew himself up, smiled, and stepped forward, looking up at the taller Joe Hardy. “You're an exchange student. Why don't you just try to enjoy yourself so you can leave England next week with fond memories, instead of regrets.”

Jeffries turned and walked back into his office. Despite Jeffries's smiling face, Joe knew he had been threatened.

• • •

“You have incredible nerve, I'll give you that,” Schulander said to Frank Hardy, who stood across from the producer's desk in a posh executive suite, holding a bag containing a roast beef sandwich.

“I had to figure out some way to get by your receptionist,” Frank said.

“Yes, not much of a ruse, bringing me roast beef when I'm a vegetarian,” Schulander said.

“I guess your receptionist doesn't know your eating habits,” Frank said, smiling.

“Yes, she's new. All right, so what do you want? A job, an audition?” Schulander asked.

“I want a light board,” Frank replied, and explained the situation at the Quill Garden, including all the acts of sabotage that had been plaguing the production.

“I know that your good friend Mr. Jeffries would appreciate your help,” Frank concluded with a statement he knew was a necessary lie.

“Let's not exaggerate,” Schulander said. “Jeffries is an acquaintance of mine, as is every other theater owner in town.”

Frank's shoulders drooped as he prepared for Schulander to send him away empty-handed.

“However, in this difficult business, we must all help each other whenever we can, else the theater shall die,”
Schulander said, rising and walking to a huge wall calender covered with handwritten notes.

“I have a show in Covent Garden closing tonight,” Schulander continued. “However, all the lighting equipment, including the board, is rented through the end of the week. You may borrow it.”

“Mr. Schulander, I don't know how to thank you,” Frank said, grinning.

“You could begin by bringing me falafel next time,” Schulander said. “Now let's arrange for you to pick up that equipment. After all . . .”

“. . . the show must go on,” Frank and Schulander said in unison.

• • •

Frank left the theater and headed down the steps into the Leicester Square tube station.

The bright sun had begun to melt the snow from the night before, and as Frank trotted out of the Aldgate East tube stop near the theater, he felt hopeful about the Pauls' new show.

As he started to cross the intersection, he hesitated, remembering to look right, instead of left, before crossing to the median halfway across.

But as he stepped into the street, Frank heard an engine race to his left. Turning his head, he saw a car driving in reverse headed straight for him.

The car slammed on its brakes and stopped a few yards before it reached Frank.

David Young stepped out of the car. “Hello, Frank,” he said. “Get in.”

Frank felt uncertain about this.

“We're a block from the theater, I don't want anyone to see us talking,” Young explained.

Frank nodded and then got into Young's European compact car. Young looked like a giant crammed into the driver's seat of the tiny automobile as he drove Frank around the block.

“Mr. Young, what are you doing here?” Frank asked.

“I've been here for twenty-one hours now,” Young told him, referring to a pile of empty cardboard coffee cups on the backseat of the car.

“Mr. Jeffries told you to stake out the theater?” Frank asked.

“Mr. Jeffries didn't much like my conclusion that you boys and Dennis Paul were innocent,” Young told him. “When I said I planned to watch the theater overnight to see who the real culprit might be, he sacked me.”

“Sacked you?” Frank asked.

“Fired me,” Young replied. “So I figured I'd better stake it out for
your
sake, if you know what I mean.”

“Then you saw us when we chased after Neville Shah,” Frank realized.

“I didn't know who or what you were chasing,” Young said.

“Where did Jennifer go?” Frank asked.

“Back into the theater,” Young replied. “Then Jeffries came out about six
A.M
.”

“Came out?” Frank repeated. “Don't you mean, went in?”

“Never saw him go in,” Young answered. “Only saw him come out. Then again, I might have been dozing when he arrived.”

“What about Jennifer?” Frank asked.

Young shook his head. “I didn't see her come out at all. You might want to ask Jeffries, since he was here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Young,” Frank said, getting out of the car and turning to shake Young's hand through the window. “You've helped us a lot.”

“Well, I feel a bit of kinship to my American investigative counterparts,” Young said with a smile. “So long for now,” he added before driving off.

Frank hurried across the street and into the theater where he found the cast on a five-minute break. He told them all the good news about Schulander and the light board he was lending to them.

Joe pulled Frank aside and into the lobby. He related his news about Blanco and Jeffries' conversation and about Jeffries's veiled threat.

“Jeffries might also have something to do with Jennifer's disappearance,” Frank said, and told him what he had learned from David Young. “Mr. Young saw Jennifer go into the theater after we left her, but she never came out. He saw Jeffries come out of the theater early this morning, but never saw him go in.”

“Do you think he took her hostage?” Joe wondered.

Frank shrugged. “I don't see Jeffries taking a hostage up the ladder and over the roof, and he would have tripped the alarm if he went out the fire exit in back.”

“Blanco and Jeffries are meeting again later this afternoon,” Joe told Frank. “Listening in on that meeting might be our best chance to find out what Jeffries is up to.”

Just then a man in a chauffeur's uniform walked into the theater and into Jeffries's office. The chauffeur reemerged with Jeffries a moment later.

“Here we go,” Joe said quietly to Frank, stepping over to the front door after Jeffries had left.

Joe caught a glimpse of Blanco in the backseat as the chauffeur opened the rear door for Jeffries. As the limousine pulled away from the curb, Joe and Frank
stepped outside and the younger Hardy flagged down a taxi.

“Follow that white limousine,” Frank told the driver as he got into the back of the taxi with Joe.

The limousine stopped briefly in front of a storefront with the name Union Fidelity Title painted on the window. Two men in business suits stepped out the front door of the title company, carrying briefcases, and got into the back of the limo.

Twenty minutes later the limo stopped outside the press entrance to a giant sports stadium, but only Blanco and Jeffries got out.

“West Ham versus Chelsea, eh?” the driver asked Joe.

“What?” Joe asked.

“You're going to the football match, West Ham versus Chelsea,” the driver clarified.

Joe looked to Frank. “I guess we are.”

“Not through that gate,” Frank said, pointing to a sign over the entrance through which Jeffries and Blanco were passing. “It says Press and Authorized Personnel Only.”

“I guess we'll have to buy tickets and try to find them inside,” Frank said, paying the driver and getting out.

“Looks like we'll be lucky if there are any left for sale,” Joe said, walking quickly toward the long line at the ticket window.

The boys were lucky enough to get two of the last tickets.

“We might as well be in Scotland, these spaces are so
far away,” Frank said, taking back his ticket stub from the turnstile attendant.

“We're sure not going to find Blanco and Jeffries if we go to our assigned spaces,” Joe agreed.

“We'd better not split up,” Frank recommended. “We'll never find each other again.”

Joe nodded and they headed toward the sections closest to the field.

Frank looked up at the sea of humanity, standing and cheering. “This will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack,” he remarked, then turned his gaze toward the field.

The game was in full swing, and a West Ham player had just placed the ball in the corner of the field closest to the Chelsea goal.

“That's John Moeller taking the corner kick,” Joe said.

Moeller kicked the ball toward the players massed in front of the Chelsea net. One of his teammates headed the ball, which deflected off the goalie's fingertips and into the Chelsea goal.