The Number File (6 page)

"I'm not sure," Croaker replied. "I wanted to cut you up for shark bait, but I'll let Mickey decide."

"Has he said anything?" the big man asked as he walked over.

"Nah, we were just talking about the fish."

"What were you looking for?" Mickey demanded, turning his attention to Joe.

"Nothing," Joe replied. "I thought this was someone else's boat."

Mickey kicked him in the side. "What were you looking for, I said?"

"Nothing — are you going to kick me again?"

"Forget him," Croaker growled. "Let's toss him."

Mickey persisted. "What were you looking for? Who are you working for?"

Joe knew that whether he talked or not, he wasn't going to get out of this one. "I told you," he said, "I got on your boat by mistake. I'm not looking for anything, and I don't work for anybody. I'm just a tourist."

"Aw, do what you want with him," Mickey told Croaker. "I've got stuff to take care of." He turned and walked away, leaving Joe in Croaker's hands.

"Well, well," the muscle man said, "I guess it's just you and me now." He nicked out his switchblade, pressing the blade under Joe's chin. "Nah, I don't want to dirty my good knife. I tell you what — you swam out here, right? I'll let you swim back."

He left for a minute and then came back with a small anchor. "This ought to give you some exercise." He tied the anchor to Joe's waist. "You can do the dog paddle," he said, grinning. "But pretty soon you'll be a dead duck."

His laugh was more like a frog's croak as he picked up Joe and the fifty-pound anchor. With the strength of a champion weight lifter, he lifted Joe above his shoulders and tossed him into the ocean, like a fisherman throwing back an undersize fish.

THE ANCHOR FASTENED around Joe's waist did its job perfectly. It sank rapidly to the twenty-five-foot ocean bottom, dragging Joe along like a fish on a line.

Every muscle ached as Joe tried to squirm free from the ropes that bound him. His head was throbbing. He tried to remain calm and conserve his oxygen. But his fear and his struggles caused his heart to race faster and faster, burning up precious oxygen.

He could feel the binding loosening around his legs, and he kept rubbing his feet together, trying to slip an ankle free. The wet rope stretched, and finally Joe did pull his legs loose. But his hands had been tied more firmly — they wouldn't budge. And no matter how hard he kicked his legs, it wasn't enough to overcome the weight attached to his waist. He was almost out of air.

Joe gritted his teeth, forcing his mouth shut so the water wouldn't rush in as he started to black out. Something rasped against his lips! A heavy stream of bubbles rose in front of his eyes. Someone was trying to force something into his mouth. It was Frank, trying to get him to take the regulator of his scuba tank. Joe opened his mouth and started breathing rapidly into the regulator, his teeth clamping down on the hard rubber mouthpiece. Frank stood by holding his breath, one hand on the regulator, the other on his brother's shoulder.

It seemed like an eternity before Joe pulled himself together enough to realize that he and his brother had to share the same regulator. He inhaled deeply, then motioned for Frank to take the mouthpiece back.

Frank took a deep breath, gave the regulator back to Joe, and then, using a knife he had tied to his weight belt, cut the ropes to the anchor. He and Joe started swimming, slowly for the surface, sharing the oxygen supply on the way up. Frank cut the ropes that bound Joe's hands.

The Hardys surfaced. All around them the sky and water were black. The wind had blown in rain clouds and was tossing the waves violently against the boys. Joe threw his head back and sucked in the fresh air. A bullet whizzed past his ear.

"Down!" Frank said. The men on the boat must have seen the air bubbles from the scuba apparatus.

With only one tank between them, Joe's first impulse was to try to swim clear of the bullets. But he knew there was too great a chance of one of them being hit.

Like it or not, they had to return underwater to share the scuba mouthpiece. Although they were still close to the surface, the light made it difficult for the men on the boat to find their mark. The two brothers dived even deeper. A minute earlier the ocean depth meant danger — now it offered safety.

Even underwater the Hardys could hear the zing of bullets cutting through the waves, but they were far out of range. The storm was blowing in full fury now, and Frank and Joe knew their attackers would be unable to see them. They swam among the reefs, looking for a safe spot behind rocks where they could crawl back onto land.

After they pulled themselves up on the rocks they lay back for a moment, catching their breath. The waves were crashing against the rocks, covering them with spray and filling the air with a sound that was almost hypnotic.

Frank unhooked himself from his gear and said, "That was close. Do you need a minute more to rest?"

"No, I'm okay," Joe responded. He coughed a few times, then got to his feet. "We better split. They'll come for us and the rain's going to start any second."

As they climbed over the slippery rocks, Frank explained why he had swum out to the boat with the scuba gear. "I could hear the men talking inside the house. They said something about the guys still on the boat. I knew you'd be in trouble, and I thought the best place for me to be was underwater by the boat. I returned to the car, and then — " He stopped short as the clouds finally released their load. Fat, pelting drops drove holes into the water and beat a steady, heavy rhythm against the rocks.

Frank ran his arm across his eyes to clear the view. "Look!" he exclaimed. "Back on the boat."

Frank and Joe watched through a sheet of rain. Mickey and Croaker began unloading ordinary-looking, tarp-covered boxes from the boat into a second dinghy. "Rain or no rain," Joe remarked, "it looks like they're going to get that boat unloaded—pronto."

"They probably figure that we can lead the cops back to them."

"Right. And if they do go on board, they don't want to get caught with the goods, whatever they are."

"It's got to be blank credit cards!" Joe told Frank how he'd found a drawer full of the blanks in the captain's cabin.

"Well, there's nothing more we can do. Let's get out of the rain," Frank suggested.

Joe laughed. "Don't tell me you're afraid of getting wet!"

The brothers found themselves laughing heartily as they headed back to Alicia's car. Then Joe's laughter stopped suddenly. "Wait a minute!" he said. "If the goons on board guess we made it back to shore, they'll call the house to let them know. Then the guys inside will be waiting for us—at the car."

"Right," Frank agreed. "We'd better separate and circle around in case it's being guarded."

As they were moving silently through the few trees that separated the rocky shore from the roadway the rain let up to a steady shower. They both reached the car about the same time. Everything seemed to be normal. No one was around.

"Put the gear in the trunk," Frank said, "while I get the car started." He shook himself off, climbed in, and started up the engine. Then he looked in the rear-view mirror. The trunk was open, obliterating his view. He looked in the side-view mirror—to find the image of a familiar car. The BMW! Frank saw that the black car was heading straight for them. But Joe couldn't; his back was to the rapidly approaching car and the light rain was muffling the sound. He was a perfect target.

Frank moved like lightning. He shoved open the car door and stepped out, screaming, "Joe! Behind you! The car!"

Now Joe heard the racing engine at his back, and knew immediately what was happening. He reached into the trunk and yanked out the metal scuba tank; in one move he turned and hurled the heavy tank at the windshield of the black BMW.

The car was only ten feet away when the heavy tank crashed into the large windshield, creating a spider's web of cracks before breaking all the way through the glass. Joe was poised to dive into the mud on the side of the road, but his fast action and deadly aim had worked. The BMW screeched to a halt. The tank had landed in the lap of the driver. Joe saw his arms folded in front of his face, the knitted cap still perched on his head. "Take off!" Joe shouted to his brother. Frank knew what Joe had in mind. He jumped back in the car, put it into gear, and stepped on the gas. Just before the car sped off, he felt Joe thumping into the trunk. It all happened so fast, and the little car squealed so noisily as it peeled out, that Frank didn't even know if they were being shot at or not.

He looked into the side-view mirror and saw one man scramble out of the passenger side of the BMW. He knew the pursuit was over—for now. He kept watching the mirror until the man, too small to identify, became a tiny speck. Once the coast was clear, Frank stopped to give Joe a chance to get out of the trunk. "Want to ride up front?" he asked.

Joe climbed out of the trunk, stretching his arms. "I was just starting to enjoy the view from the rear." He grinned.

"Did you learn anything else at Kruger's?" Joe asked as they drove back to Hamilton under the now clearing sky.

"When I got up to the side of the house, I stood under an open window. One of the guys from the yacht was called Gus, and the other Del — I think he was the one that you nailed with the scuba tank. Anyway, the first thing out of Gus's mouth was something about the other two guys on the boat. We didn't figure there was anybody else left. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to stay and listen to Kruger, but I was afraid that you were headed for trouble. So I sneaked back to the car, grabbed the gear, and headed out."

It was two-thirty when the Hardys got back to Hamilton. Joe suggested they stop at the police station to get the ballistics report on Alfred Montague's gun and to find out how Walt Conway was doing.

"Hello, Chief Boulton," the brothers said as they entered his office.

"Hi, boys." The chief looked the boys up and down, almost hesitant to ask about their damp attire. They had quickly pulled their jeans on over their wet trunks. "How's the crime-fighting business?"

Frank and Joe exchanged a look. Joe spoke first and then they both filled the chief in on the specifics of what they discovered at Kruger's house.

"How's Conway?" Frank asked.

"He's recovering quite well," the chief responded. "And I suppose you want to know about the report on the gun you brought in?"

Frank and Joe just nodded.

"Well, Montague's gun was not the gun used to shoot Conway—or anybody else that we know of, for that matter."

"That's a relief." Joe sighed.

"One curious thing, though," Chief Boulton added. "Joe's fingerprints were the only prints on that gun. Before he handled it, it had been wiped clean!" He pulled the gun out of his drawer and handed it back to Joe.

Joe screwed up his face, puzzled. "The gun had been fired, but why would someone wipe the prints off?"

The chief just shrugged.

Joe leaned against the wall, trying to figure it out. "Wait a minute! I completely forgot!"

"You mean you know why the gun was wiped clean?" Frank asked.

"No," he said as though he couldn't care less about it. "I forgot the stuff I took from the boat!" He pulled something from the waistband of his trunks that looked like a soggy piece of paper on a square plate and tossed it on the table, a wide grin on his face. "Check stubs and a disk, from the Sea Mist."

FRANK AND JOE took the check stubs and computer disk with them, certain that some information could be retrieved. They wanted to check them over carefully when they got back to Montague's house and could use his computer.

There were things bothering them — little unresolved things—including why Montague's gun was wiped clean of fingerprints. Why had his credit card turned up on the cliff overlooking the wreck of the MG? And the larger questions, such as, what happened the evening Montague was supposedly kidnapped, and was he holding back anything? There were so many unanswered questions—and so little time left.

"We've spent the past two days getting bruised and battered and out of breath." Joe sagged back in his seat as the brothers headed for home.

"But we're not even close to solving this case," Frank said. "And if we don't by tomorrow, we won't deserve a vacation."

Joe scowled. "All we have are names, some pictures, and a good idea who's behind the credit card scam and trying to kill us off."

"Maybe Montague can help," Frank suggested.

"Montague?"

Frank shrugged. "He's either for us or against us. If he's for us, then maybe we can get him to help in solving this thing. If he's against us, then it's time we confronted him and forced his hand."

"Okay, here's your chance." Joe cocked his head, indicating that they were back at Montague's house.

"I didn't realize we were home yet," Frank said, surprised.

"That worries me," Joe mused, "considering you're driving."

They parked Alicia's car and headed for the house.

"Oh," said Frank, remembering something. "We should get the stuff out of the trunk."

"The only thing in the trunk was me; the scuba gear's in the front seat of the BMW."

"But what about the second tank?" "Oh. Guess you missed that. I threw it at the front tire of the BMW after I got in the trunk. There wasn't enough room in there for the two of us, and it looked like a good way to slow them down when they chased us."

"But they didn't chase us," Frank reminded his brother.

"Maybe the tank under the tire worked!" Joe said with a big grin on his face.

Montague and Alicia had come to the front door to greet them. "Hello!" they both said. The brothers said "Hi" as they walked up to the door. Then Joe added another "Hi!" and a broad smile as he looked at Alicia.

They were ushered into the living room, Montague and his daughter anxious to hear how the day had gone so far.

Joe started in without even waiting to sit down. He was uncomfortable pretending to be the friendly guest while he still had doubts about his host. "There are some things we have to talk about." He thought it sounded unusually cold and began to feel even more uncomfortable when he noticed Alicia staring at him, a look of worry on her face.