The London Deception (13 page)

The crowd erupted. Someone grabbed Joe and swung him around in celebration while Frank got bumped against the man walking behind him by some other rowdy fans.

“They take this seriously,” Joe said after he had been put down. “Too seriously.”

“Man, that was a perfect kick, though,” Frank commented.

“Not perfect,” a white-haired man in a cap said.
“Moeller's perfect kick came in a World Cup match he played for England three and a half years ago. The corner kick hooked perfectly over the goalkeeper and into the far side of the net.”

Frank looked back at the game as Chelsea started their attack. A sign at the far end of the field caught Frank's eye. It appeared to be an advertisement for a restaurant called the Corner Kick.

“Looks like they even named a restaurant after Moeller's play,” Frank said, nodding toward the sign.

“That's because John Moeller owns it,” the man in the cap told him. “It's huge, one of the most popular restaurants in London. Packed all the time, it is.”

Pieces of the puzzle began falling into place in Frank's head.

“If I'm caught, you can forget about the Corner Kick,” Frank said aloud.

“What?” Joe said, still scanning the crowd.

“What Shah said on the phone,” Frank explained. “I have a hunch he was talking to Jeffries. Blanco wasn't there to talk about renting the theater for a show. I think he was there to talk about buying the theater and turning it into another Corner Kick restaurant!”

“Wow, Frank, that really seems to fit,” Joe agreed. “Jeffries was talking about room for dancing in the restaurant, not on the stage!”

“No wonder Moeller has been in that neighborhood,” Frank added.

“But why would Jeffries take such drastic measures to stop our show? Why wouldn't he just let
Innocent
Victim
have its run and then sell the theater to Moeller and Blanco?” Joe wondered.

“Good question, Joe,” Frank said. “I don't have an answer.”

The Hardys spent the next ninety minutes scouring the stadium for Jeffries. Only a minute remained in a tied game.

“Wait, there they are!” Joe shouted, pointing to Blanco and Jeffries, ten rows up near midfield. Jeffries saw Joe and jumped to his feet, exchanging a few quick words with Blanco before heading down the steps toward the field.

The Hardys headed down after him just as a Chelsea player kicked the winning goal as time expired. The rowdy crowd leaped up in an angry eruption, then many began rushing toward the exits.

The boys got stuck between two gangs of rival fans shouting and threatening one another.

“Forget Jeffries for now!” Joe yelled. “We'd better get out of here!”

A young woman fell to the ground in front of Frank as they tried to escape the mayhem. Frank helped her to her feet, but then got pushed from behind and hit the pavement as a throng of fans began to trample him beneath their feet.

Frank covered his head with his arms and tried to get up, but the force of the solid mass of people pushing from behind knocked him down again.

Someone grabbed Frank by the back of his jacket and started dragging him along the ground. It was Joe, who pulled Frank to his feet.

“Over here!” he shouted as he and Frank jumped onto the railing of a concrete wall over a tunnel leading from the field. Frank and Joe breathed sighs of relief as they were now out of the way of the throngs stampeding from the stadium.

Below in the tunnel, the losing West Ham United team was headed for the locker room. “It's John Moeller!” Joe yelled, spotting the winger trotting past reporters and photographers toward the tunnel.

“We've lost Jeffries. Maybe we should drop in on Moeller,” Frank suggested.

“You mean literally?” Joe asked.

“Literally,” Frank replied. “Drop!”

Frank hung off the railing and dropped onto the pavement of the tunnel eight feet below. Joe followed a second behind him.

“Mr. Moeller!” Frank shouted to the soccer star as he approached.

In a flash, the Hardys were set upon by security guards, who roughly escorted them away from the West Ham team and down a hallway.

“Timothy Jeffries is a criminal. You're being deceived!” Joe shouted.

Joe's accusation got Moeller's attention momentarily, but then he moved on with his team.

• • •

Frank swallowed hard as he looked into the holding cells filled with roughneck fans who had been brought here for fighting and other bad behavior. Some had dried blood on their faces, and none of them looked too friendly.

“Hold on!” a voice called from down the hall. John Moeller had returned. “I want to talk to these boys.”

The security guards released the Hardys, who then followed Moeller into a locker room filled with reporters and a lot of tired, disappointed players headed for the showers.

Frank quickly explained the sabotage that had been
occurring at the Quill Garden Theatre and how they believed Timothy Jeffries might be involved.

“How did you know I was planning to open the Corner Kick II?” Moeller wondered. “Mr. Blanco and I have been keeping it a secret.”

“Then Mr. Blanco is your business partner?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Moeller replied. “But we were led to believe the Quill Garden Theatre would be vacant by next week so that we could close the sale and begin renovations.”

“Well, let's say someone's been trying to
make it
vacant for you,” Joe remarked.

“Why the rush to buy it and build?” Frank asked.

“The World Cup!” Joe blurted out, remembering his conversation with Dennis Paul at the pub two days earlier.

“Yes, that's right,” Moeller said. “We want to have the grand opening during World Cup competition when England will be teeming with football fans.”

“Did you give Jeffries a deadline?” Frank asked.

“We had two other sites we were considering if the Quill Garden deal didn't go through by next weekend,” Moeller told them.

“So Jeffries had a window of opportunity to turn a huge profit on a rundown theater for which he had paid next to nothing,” Frank deduced.

“If he could get
Innocent Victim
out of it pronto,” Joe added.

“Interesting theory, boys,” Moeller said. “If it's true, I'll not be buying the Quill Garden Theatre, I promise you.”

At that moment Blanco walked into the locker room with a big smile on his face. “Good news, John,” he told his partner. “Jeffries dropped his price, and we closed today!”

“Closed!” Moeller exclaimed.

“Yes, it was all signed, sealed, and delivered in the limousine on the ride to the stadium,” Blanco said. “I thought Jeffries would enjoy coming down here to meet the team, but he said he had pressing business.”

“Yeah, getting away,” Joe commented.

“You didn't give him any money, did you?” Moeller asked.

“Yes, the down payment was in cash, as he requested,” Blanco replied. “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Jeffries knows we're onto him, he might take that money and run,” Frank guessed.

“Where was Jeffries headed?” Joe asked Blanco.

“I don't know, but there would be no getting a taxi with this crowd,” Blanco said, perplexed. “Chances are he headed for the tube.”

Racing out of the stadium, the Hardys followed the crowd to the nearest tube stop. The platform was jammed with fans who began filing onto a train that had just pulled into the station.

Frank knew Jeffries could easily have boarded the train without being spotted. “Make the call, Joe. Do we get on this train or wait?”

The train doors began to close.

“Get on!” Joe yelled, and he and Frank squeezed
through the door and stood, smashed against the glass in the packed train car.

At each stop Joe slipped out to see if he could spot Jeffries getting off the train, then hopped back on when the doors began to close.

“No luck,” he told Frank.

After several stops the train reached the stop for the theater. Joe asked, “What do we do?”

“I guess we get off and call Detective Inspector Ryan,” Frank replied.

The boys stepped off the train and were headed for the way out when Joe suddenly grabbed Frank and pushed him behind a trash bin.

“Jeffries!” Joe whispered. “I just saw him.”

“Is he headed up the escalator to the exit?” Frank asked.

Joe peeked around the edge of the bin. “No, he's switching to the Hammersmith line.”

“Let's go,” Frank instructed, moving from behind the trash bin.

“I'll grab him,” Joe said as they hurried down the tunnel to the Hammersmith line, “and you—”

“We're not ready to grab him yet,” Frank said. “There's a lot of evidence to be sorted out and a lot of accusations that need to be proven. Besides, I want to know where he's headed with that money.”

The boys waited, out of sight, until Jeffries boarded a Hammersmith-bound train, then rushed into the car next to it.

Jeffries got off at Baker Street, and the boys followed
him to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. Jeffries purchased a ticket and went inside.

“Joe, call Chris on his dad's cell phone,” Frank instructed. “Tell him to contact Detective Inspector Ryan and meet us down here. Meanwhile, I'll buy two tickets.”

Joe nodded and then hurried to a nearby pay phone.

“The museum closes in thirty minutes,” the woman in the ticket booth warned Frank.

“Thank you, thirty minutes will be plenty of time,” Frank said, purchasing the tickets anyway.

Joe met Frank and they entered the museum together. Even though he was pursuing a criminal, Joe couldn't help but check out the incredible, lifelike exhibits as he passed by them.

One room had wax figures of movie stars such as James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, and Marilyn Monroe, while the next contained likenesses of the British royal family.

Frank kept a sharp eye on Jeffries, who moved through the crowded museum as if he were rushing to catch a flight at a busy airport. He finally stopped and sat on a bench next to a woman who had dozed off.

For a moment Frank wondered if the woman was faking it, and might be Jeffries's contact. Then he realized that she was made of wax!

Frank and Joe moved behind a talking figure of Elvis Presley, as Jeffries's eyes darted around the room looking for someone. Suddenly he rose to his feet and walked down a ramp leading to the Chamber of Horrors.

The Hardys followed at a safe distance. The dimly lit
Chamber of Horrors pulsated with eerie sounds and music, punctuated by occasional screams that echoed through the dark corridors.

Wax figures of victims were arranged in tortured poses behind bars on each side of the corridor.

“Pretty gruesome, huh?” Frank whispered to Joe.

“It sure is,” Joe replied quietly. “We need to come back when we have more time.”

Jeffries stood in a small, dark alcove beside the likenesses of Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI, their bloody wax heads stuck on spikes on each side of a guillotine. A museum guard with short black hair walked over to Jeffries.

“Neville Shah!” Joe said under his breath.

Opening his briefcase, Jeffries discreetly removed a stack of British currency and handed it to Shah.

“Go back to the entrance and find Chris and Detective Inspector Ryan,” Frank told his younger brother. “I'll keep an eye on these two.”

Joe headed back up the winding ramp. Shah and Jeffries began walking Frank's way, so he ducked down a side corridor.

As Frank reached a service door, he turned back to see if Jeffries was following. Someone suddenly stepped through the service door and grabbed him, slapping a powerful hand over his mouth and yanking him into the darkness.

“You should have stayed in America,” Frank's attacker snarled, putting Frank in a choke hold and dragging him down a narrow hallway into a cold storage area.

Out of the corner of his eye Frank could see that it was Corey Lista and elbowed him in the ribs. Lista released the choke hold, but then drove Frank against the wall. Frank fell, stunned, toppling over someone standing beside him.

In the red glow from an emergency light, Frank saw a face, half eaten away on one side. The overhead lights suddenly came on, and Frank realized that he was looking at wax.

“This is where we bring the rejects,” Shah said to Frank with a smile. “The waxworks that are obsolete.”

“So this is your part-time job, eh, Neville?” Frank asked, playing it cool.

Shah just smiled. Jeffries stood by the light switch, glaring at Frank.

“How did he get here?” Jeffries demanded of Lista.

“I wager that he followed you,” Lista replied, pulling Frank to his feet.

“Where's your brother?” Jeffries asked.

“I lost him at the soccer game,” Frank lied.

“How often does anyone come in this room?” Jeffries asked Shah.

“They won't be altering any exhibits for at least three days,” Shah replied.

“Plenty of time for us to be off and away,” Jeffries said, then turned back to Frank. “So many sights in dear old London you'll miss. If only you could have behaved as a normal tourist, I should say we would all be a great deal happier right now.”

“Instead, we will become outlaws on the lam,” Lista said, “and you will become the only
Innocent Victim
they write about in the newspaper.”

“This has gotten so out of hand,” Jeffries sighed. “I was just trying to sell a white elephant of a theater for a little profit.”

“A giant profit, you mean,” Frank said, checking out of the corner of his eye for some means of escape.

“Whatever the amount, you must admit it wasn't worth what you've put us through,” Jeffries said. “Or what we are about to put
you
through.”