The London Deception (6 page)

“We didn't take them, Mr. Bamberg,” Frank told him.

“I gave the owner of the Seven Bells the what for,” Bamberg went on. “I thought one of his customers had nicked them.”

“Someone wearing that mask and using that rod lured us into a trap,” Frank said.

“I've been with the tour group,” Bamberg insisted, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Ask them. I only left them half a minute ago to come searching for you two.”

“Then it must have been someone at the Seven Bells who took it,” Joe deduced. “That means whoever tried to knock you off has been following us this whole time.”

“Knock him off?” Bamberg repeated, confused.

“Maybe David Young, that private investigator, never stopped following us,” Frank guessed.

“You need to speak with a constable,” Bamberg said. “And I need to rejoin my group. If you want to wait in front of the theater, I'll ring the police and send them over.”

• • •

When Detective Inspector Ryan arrived and listened to the Hardys' story, he acted rather callous about the whole thing. “We get reports approximately once a month about strange sounds in this theater.”

“What about the iron gate that almost turned Frank into a waffle?” Joe asked.

“We get reports
twice
a month about homeless men sleeping in that abandoned building,” Detective Inspector Ryan replied. “You probably frightened one of them, and he knocked the gate over by accident.”

“Knocked it over by accident? That gate weighs five hundred pounds,” Frank insisted.

“Boys, I'll look into it,” Detective Inspector Ryan said with an impatient sigh. “Now, why don't you two get home to bed.”

By the time the Hardys returned to the Pauls' home, it was nearly ten
P.M
.

“I had begun to think one of the ghosts of Haunted London had done you in,” Chris joked.

“That's not far from the truth,” Frank said, and retold the story of their evening.

“Granted, it sounds like someone has it in for you two,” Chris agreed. “But how could he be inside using power tools one minute, and outside wearing the guide's costume the next?”

“We're not sure,” Frank admitted.

“Somebody had to have followed us into the Seven Bells,” Joe pointed out, “so there may be an accomplice.”

Just then Mr. Paul walked in, looking glum, his head bowed.

“Dad, where have you been?” Chris asked.

“Meeting with Mr. Kije,” Mr. Paul replied. “The costumers needed half the money in advance.”

“Frank and Joe had another weird encounter outside the Quill Garden—” Chris began to tell him.

“Doesn't matter, Chris,” Mr. Paul interrupted. “Mr. Kije can't raise any more money. He's going to cancel the show.”

Chris's face dropped, and Joe put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I've had Corey call a special meeting with the cast and crew tomorrow morning to tell them,” Mr. Paul said wearily.

“What about school?” Chris asked.

“Another teacher is covering my classes,” Mr. Paul replied. “The headmaster knows we won't be there,” he added, then headed up the stairs to bed.

Joe and Frank stayed up another hour, whispering.

“I feel bad, not telling Chris about the private detective that Mr. Jeffries hired,” Joe said.

“But what if Mr. Jeffries is right to suspect Mr. Paul?” Frank conjectured. “What if Mr. Paul and Mr. Kije are afraid the show is going to flop and are trying to create reasons to break the contract with Mr. Jeffries and get their rent money back?”

“You've watched Mr. Paul in rehearsal,” Joe insisted. “He wants
Innocent Victim
to go on more than anyone.”

“I've also noticed that he suddenly appeared after the fire in the dressing room, saying he had been eating a late meal,” Frank reminded Joe. “And he could have been there tonight when the gate almost fell on me.”

“He said he was meeting with Mr. Kije,” Joe said. “Maybe it's Mr. Kije we need to investigate.”

“For the sake of Chris and the show, I think you and I had better get permission to miss school tomorrow, too,” Frank suggested before saying good night and rolling over to sleep.

• • •

The next day the Hardys, Chris, and Mr. Paul stopped to grab breakfast at the Lamb and Wolf, a pub just down the street from the Quill Garden Theatre.

Joe watched Mr. Paul, who stared blankly out the window, clearly crestfallen by the announcement that he would soon be making to the cast and crew of the show.

Chris checked his watch and suddenly got up from the table. “I'm not hungry. I'll see you all at the theater.”

“What's up with Chris?” Joe wondered.

“With all the trouble, it's no wonder he's anxious,” Mr. Paul replied.

Frank watched their red-haired friend through the window as Chris hurried down the street. Quill Garden Road bustled with activity. A new café had a Grand Opening banner hanging over the entrance, and the construction crew was working full tilt on the building across from the Quill Garden.

“Do you know what that's going to be?” Frank asked Mr. Paul.

“What?” Mr. Paul asked, preoccupied. “Oh, it's going to be one of those multiplex cinemas you Americans are so fond of.”

Joe noticed a white limousine pulling up outside.
Two men, one with close-cut black hair and the other with a frizzy mass of blond hair, stepped out of it.

A commotion erupted by the door as patrons of the pub rose from their seats and crowded around the man with frizzy hair. The black-haired man politely pushed the crowd away from the blond man, then they took a seat together in one of the booths.

“Is he a rock 'n' roll star?” Joe asked Mr. Paul.

Mr. Paul looked over his shoulder. “Bigger than a rock star, he's a footballer.”

“A footballer?” Joe asked.

“A soccer player,” Mr. Paul explained, seemingly unenthused. “John Moeller—he's a superstar right winger for West Ham United.”

“Wow, I've never seen a soccer player get that kind of reaction,” Frank said.

“In Europe it's as big a sport as American football, baseball, or basketball,” Mr. Paul explained. “And its heroes are like royalty.”

“A soccer match in England,” Joe said, grinning at the idea. “Now, that's something I'd love to see.”

“If you come back in six months, you can see him play in the World Cup,” Mr. Paul told him. “England is hosting it this year.”

Mr. Paul fell silent again, sighed heavily, and stared out the window. Joe could tell it was taxing him to make conversation, so they ate the rest of their meal in relative silence.

When the Hardys and Mr. Paul walked into the theater lobby a little while later, Corey Lista was waiting.

“I have the cast and crew assembled, Mr. Paul,” Lista said, then referred to a sheet on his clipboard. “They're all here except for your son and, of course, Neville Shah.”

“Thank you, Corey,” Mr. Paul responded, trying to smile.

Joe saw Emily Anderson on the pay phone at the far end of the lobby and casually walked over to check out the show posters adorning the wall.

“The show may not go on after all.” Joe overheard her saying in a hushed voice. “I'll know for sure after this meeting, Ian. You have to stall Schulander for another day.”

Emily noticed Joe standing nearby and raised her voice. “I'll ring you up after rehearsal then, yes?”

Hanging up the phone, Emily smiled sweetly at Joe before walking into the theater.

“Mr. Paul!” Joe heard someone call. The ticket clerk hurried out of the box office, holding an envelope. “Mr. Paul, someone left this on the counter,” the clerk said, handing it to him. “It's addressed to Mr. Kije.”

“ ‘From an anonymous donor,' ” Mr. Paul read the outside of the envelope aloud before opening it.

As Joe walked beside him, Frank leaned over and whispered. “That's a strange way to invest in a show.”

Mr. Paul pulled a check from the envelope, then gasped. “It's a bank check for three thousand pounds.”

“Three thousand pounds?” Frank said quietly to Joe. “Exactly how much Mr. Paul said he needed to save the show.”

“Who did you say left this?” Mr. Paul asked the box office clerk.

“I don't know. I didn't see anyone,” she replied, then returned to her post.

“Well, boys,” Mr. Paul said, smiling genuinely, “maybe we're not closed yet after all!”

As the Hardys followed Mr. Paul into the theater and down the side aisle, Joe ran into Jennifer. Joe felt oddly embarrassed encountering his new friend, who had become a suspect since the last time he saw her.

“Where were you today, Joe?” Jennifer asked. “We haven't had one disaster, it's been dull as dirt.”

“You heard about the fire the night before last?” he asked.

“Heard about it?” she replied. “I had the police knocking on my door at two o'clock in the morning.”

“You think someone stole the dressing room key from your chain?” Joe asked.

“Someone must have,” Jennifer replied, “but I don't know how.”

“Have you ever used the key?” Joe asked.

Jennifer shook her head.

“Maybe it was never on the chain.” Joe went on. “Who issued you your keys?”

“Mr. Jeffries,” she replied.

Frank had stopped to listen and decided to try to provoke a reaction from the young technician. “What were you working on in here last night, Jennifer?”

Jennifer wrinkled her forehead. “I wasn't here,” she replied, puzzled. “And the crew knocked off about five-thirty.”

Joe frowned at Frank. He knew his brother had tried to catch Jennifer off guard and let something slip, but Joe felt sure she wasn't involved. “We heard
someone
in here using power tools at about eight last night.”

“Don't know, Joe,” Jennifer replied with a shrug. “I locked the place up when I left.”

“Jennifer, this concerns you, too,” Mr. Paul called from the stage, where he had assembled the cast and crew.

“If you're dropping the ax on this show,” Emily said loudly to Mr. Paul, “can we get on with it?”

As Jennifer started toward the stage, Joe held Frank back a moment. “Instead of questioning Jennifer, why aren't we talking to Emily Anderson?”

“I don't see Ms. Anderson scaling ladders and escaping from rooftops,” Frank replied, watching the refined older woman elegantly pacing across the stage. “Besides, why would the star of a show try to sabotage it?”

“I overheard her on the phone telling someone named Ian to stall someone named Schulander until she found out whether this show was being canceled,” Joe informed him.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “That
does
sound suspicious.”

Chris came running down the aisle on the other side of the theater. “Sorry I'm late!”

“All is forgiven today, Chris. An anonymous donor has given us new life,” Mr. Paul said, then turned to his stage manager. “Corey, if you would run the scene at the headmaster's office with Emily and Chris, I need to deliver this check to Mr. Kije and get the deposit to the costumers.”

“Can't you just send someone?” Lista asked.

“No, this I need to do myself,” Mr. Paul replied, then hurried from the theater.

“Well, if we want to find out about Mr. Kije, here's our chance,” Joe whispered to Frank.

“Say, Joe, I need someone to run a spotlight until we get a replacement for Neville,” Jennifer called as she started up the steps.

“I'll trail Mr. Paul,” Frank said quietly.

“What should I do?” Joe asked.

“Find out what you can about Emily Anderson,” Frank replied. “And learn how to work a spotlight,” he added with a smile, then hurried to catch up with Mr. Paul.

• • •

Frank followed Mr. Paul at a safe distance, expecting him to hop on a bus or flag down a cab to take him to Mr. Kije's home or office. Instead, the director and author walked a few blocks and went directly into the First Merchants Bank of England.

Maybe Mr. Kije is a banker, Frank thought, as he stepped through the revolving doors into the bank lobby.

Mr. Paul stood in the single line for the tellers. Grabbing a London
Herald
someone had left on a counter, Frank sat in the customer service waiting area watching Mr. Paul over the top of the newspaper.

Chris's father had reached the front of the line. The man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to an available teller, but Mr. Paul shook his head no and pointed toward a young female teller at a different window.

From the way the young female teller greeted Mr. Paul when he reached her window, Frank could tell they knew each other, although he couldn't hear what was being said.

Frank watched as the young woman took the cashier's check and began counting out money on the
counter. Frank could tell they were large denominations because of the physical size of each bill. He knew that in England, the larger the bill, the more it was worth.

“Something smells a bit fishy, eh?” someone across the waiting area from Frank said. It was David Young, the private investigator.

“Maybe she thinks he's Mr. Kije,” Frank said quietly.

The teller handed Mr. Paul the money in a large envelope and added, “Have a lovely day, Mr. Paul.”

“Or maybe she doesn't,” Young said.

Frank drew the newspaper in front of his face as Mr. Paul passed him and left the bank.

“Someone followed us last night after we left the Tower of London,” Frank said, waiting for Young's reaction.

“By your tone, I fancy you think it was me,” Young said. “Since I left you and your brother, I've been trailing Dennis Paul.”