Thick as Thieves (2 page)

Joe snapped his fingers. "The old Miller farm. It's the only clear, flat land for miles."

"Right," replied Frank. "I can't wait to bring her in."

"You?" Joe said, "I'm the one she made a fool of in San Francisco."

"She did a pretty good job of that with both of us, brother."

Joe grinned. "That'd really be something, wouldn't it? Us capturing the greatest jewel thief of the decade — " He stopped as the gates to the old Miller place appeared in the headlights.

The Miller farm had been one of the many in the Bayport area, but times had changed. Farmers had moved out, and more and more of their land had been built up with new housing developments. Yet, even as the city swallowed up so much land, this old farm remained untouched, even after the last Miller died. Now it was a slowly collapsing monument to a way of life that had all but vanished from that part of the country.

The lock that should have been on the gate wasn't there. Frank killed the headlights as Joe got out of the van and pulled open the barrier. The van rolled onto the farm.

"There's a light on at the house," Joe said. He stood on the step of the van, hanging out the open door. Something dark spread out across the road in front of them. "Watch it."

Frank brought the van to a stop. "Charity's hang glider," he said, getting out of the van. "If we run over that, it'll make so much noise that she'll know we're here. Let's leave the car and not move the glider. It'll be quieter approaching on foot."

Joe grinned. "I can't wait to see the look on her face when we burst in on her."

Quietly they crept through the tall weeds and then across the grass to approach the house. The curtains were drawn, but a woman's shadow fell on them, moving back and forth. Frank squinted. There was something odd about the silhouette, but he couldn't put his finger on what.

"Let's hope she's alone," he said. "I'd hate to run into someone toting a gun."

Joe reached the house first and flattened his back against it. Inside, the shadow still walked back and forth. "If she's got the Star, she'll have already dumped any partner she might have had. Charity uses people, but she never splits the loot with them."

"Looks like she's waiting for someone," said Frank, who had flattened himself against the wall next to Joe. "Let's not disappoint her."

They reached the door. It was solid wood, but years of decay had splintered and weakened it. It gave slightly against Joe's testing shove.

"Ready?" he whispered. Frank nodded.

Joe threw down one finger, and then a second. On the third finger, the Hardys stepped away from the door, then hurled their shoulders into it.

The door cracked open with a sound like a sudden thunderclap. It fell away, and the Hardys rushed into the farmhouse. All the furniture was still there, covered with a thick layer of dust. There was no sign that anyone had lived there in recent months.

Frank didn't hang around to check out the decorating. They ran for the living-room door and rushed into the lit space.

In the middle of the living room was a lamp, trained on the window. Between the window and the light was a record player, its turntable moving round and round. Riding around was a cardboard cutout shaped like a woman's head and shoulders. The shadow cast by the light seemed to move back and forth across the curtains. Cords from both the light and the record player ran to a small portable generator in a corner of the room.

That was it — there was no sign of Charity.

"A trick!" Joe roared. "She's not here at all."

"What's that noise?" Frank cut across Joe's yelling. From somewhere came a low hum, like that of a giant electric fan that was growing louder and louder.

"Outside!" Joe dashed for the front door.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Frank said, following on the heels of his brother. "Remember old man Miller, back when we were kids? How he used to entertain at fairs?"

"Barnstorming," Joe recalled. "He did flying tricks in an old biplane."

"And his barn is built to store a plane," Frank said, leading the way now, to the barn. "That's how she's going to get out of here! She has a plane stashed here."

They flung open the barn doors, and a blast of air hit them in the face. The single engine of a biplane roared in their ears. The boys rushed in, raising their arms to keep the blowing dust out of their eyes. They could just make out a woman sitting in the pilot's seat.

"Charity," Joe yelled, but his voice was drowned by the engine noise. There was a grinding of machinery behind him, and he turned—too late—to see the barn doors closing. There wasn't enough space for them to get out.

"Frank!" Joe shouted. "The doors!"

They rushed over and pressed their hands against the doors, struggling to keep them open, but strong motors forced them shut. Charity stuck a remote control out the side window, and on her lips she plastered a smile.

Bits of straw were sucked into the propeller and were shredded. As Frank and Joe pressed back against the barn door, the plane began to move forward.

The propeller, slicing everything in its way, was aimed straight at them.

"SCRAMBLE," FRANK YELLED, diving to the ground to avoid the whirling blade. Joe rolled under a wing as the plane passed over him.

With a laugh, Charity aimed the remote control at the barn doors again and pressed a button. They swung wide open, and the plane rolled away from the Hardys and out into the night.

"Stop her!" Joe yelled. He leapt for the tail of the plane, which rolled along on a single wheel. He was too late. The biplane was already in the air.

Charity was out of reach.

"It figures she'd be able to fly a plane," Joe said, brushing himself off after his hard landing. "She's an expert at everything else. We'll never catch her."

"Maybe," Frank said, every bit as annoyed as Joe by the escape. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. She's obviously been using this place as her base of operations. Maybe she left something behind to trace her by." They went back to the house.

A search of the bedrooms and kitchen turned up nothing. Neither did a check of the record player.

As Joe moved the lamp that had shone on the window, a tiny scrap of paper fluttered out from under the bottom of it and settled near his shoe. He picked it up and studied it. It looked like a duplicate from an order form, with serial numbers on it.

"I think I found something," he called to Frank.

Frank walked over to Joe and took the paper from him. "I'd say it was a piece of a receipt. It looks vaguely familiar, but I'm not sure why or where it's from."

Joe sighed. "One thing I am sure about is that there's nothing else to find here. We'd better get back to town and give them the bad news."

The mood back at the museum was bleak. A line of police officers barricaded both ends of the street that the museum was on, keeping reporters and TV camera crews out. Frank and Joe were let through the barricade and shortly found themselves in the museum curator's office, where Chief Collig sat on a couch, with Officer Con Riley nearby, leaning against a wall. Both sets of eyes were on Renner. Renner was speaking on the phone, but he talked too quietly to be heard across the room. Though good friends, Collig and Riley didn't speak. Right then there was nothing to say.

Riley's eyes rolled up as the Hardys entered the room. Unlike Chief Collig, he had never minded the Hardys helping out on cases, but he also knew that wherever Frank and Joe were, trouble was sure to follow. "Your father know you're here, boys?"

The Hardys' father was Fenton Hardy, a former New York police detective who had become a world-famous private investigator. It wasn't unusual for him to take off across the globe at the drop of a hat—which Frank and Joe sometimes did as well.

"Mom and Dad are in Boston for the week," Joe said. "Dad recommended us for this security gig because he couldn't be here."

Riley grinned. "I suppose he thought it would be easy."

"Wipe that stupid grin off your face," Renner growled as he slammed the phone down.

He pointed to the chief. "I want this man arrested."

All four stared at Renner, stunned. Chief Collig bounced to his feet, angrily asking, "And what am I to be arrested for?"

"You stole the Star," Renner said, glaring at Collig. "You stole it while I was out front talking to these kids." He waved a hand in the direction of the Hardys. "Then they concocted this story about a jewel thief to cover your tracks."

"She was there!" Frank protested.

"Says you," Renner said bluntly. "I didn't see anyone. Suddenly you three were tripping alarms and pulling stunts, till I couldn't tell what was what. But the thief had to be someone who knew how to turn the alarms on and off and who could get to them. That means Collig or me. And I was with the boys."

"It was Charity," Joe said. "We have proof." He held up the scrap of paper. Renner snatched it, studied it for a moment, then crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it back to Joe.

"Stray garbage," the insurance man said. He pointed a finger at Collig again.

Con Riley glared at Renner, his hands on his hips. "There's no evidence against the chief, and he's too fine a man for you to accuse."

"I should have figured you hick-town cops would stick together," Renner snarled back. "But I know what my report is going to say."

"If you think you've got something on me, do whatever you have to," Chief Collig said. "But don't you speak to my officers like that. And don't forget that I'm still chief of police in this town."

"You won't be much longer if I have anything to say about it," Renner said. "And I will. The insurance company I work for has lots of pull in this state. No yokel cop is going to make fools of them. Collig, you can kiss your job goodbye." He eyed the Hardys. "Now, what about these two?"

"They're free to go," Riley said.

"No, we're not free." Joe gave Renner a look so menacing the insurance guy jumped a step back. "We're going to find Charity, bring back the sapphire, and wreck this little frame you're trying to put around the chief and Frank and me."

"I've got it!" Frank cried. "Joe, where's that scrap of paper?"

As Joe handed him the numbers, Frank went behind the curator's desk and dug out a phone book. "Airlines, airlines ... " he mumbled, running a finger down a column in the Yellow Pages. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Hi," he said in a cheery voice. "I'm afraid I've destroyed my plane ticket, and all I have left of it is the order number. I think it was with your company. Could you check? ... Thank you." He rattled off the number on the paper.

"Oh. Transcontinent Air. ... I see. Thank you. And that flight was to ... ? Sorry, but my appointment book was destroyed at the same time. I go so many places on business, I can't keep track of them. ... Thanks.

"Of course. Thanks. And the flight is leaving ... It just left. Oh, dear. Is there any other flight I can— When? ... Tomorrow morning? That'd be great. Two tickets, please. ... Hardy. ... Yes. You've been very helpful."

Frank hung up the phone, cold determination on his face. "Let's go, Joe. We have some packing to do."

"Where do you think you're going?" Renner snapped.

"San Diego," Frank said, trailing Joe out of the room. They slammed the door behind them.

Joe Hardy woke the minute the plane touched down on the runway in San Diego. He and Frank both knew that that might be the last time they'd have to sleep in days. They had drifted off as soon as they left New York.

Joe almost wished he hadn't. His rest had been constantly interrupted by nightmares of Charity.

He nudged Frank awake. "I've been thinking—" he began, as the plane rolled up to the terminal, but Frank interrupted him.

"Me, too. Something's not right here." Frank yawned and stretched. "It strikes me that Charity could've escaped from us several times. Why was she so slow?"

"Slow?"

"Sure. First, she dangles on that rope until we see her, then she stays on the scaffolding outside until I get there."

Joe nodded. "And she was way ahead of us in the barn. She could have flown away before we got anywhere near her."

"But instead she closed the doors and played with us," Frank agreed. "Sounds a little like she was trying to make sure we stayed on her trail, doesn't it?"

"You think she left the number for us to find?"

"I don't know. There's only one way to find out."

"Right," Joe said. "Catch Charity." The flight attendants opened the doors, and the passengers started filing out of the plane. Trapped in their seats until the flood of people passed, Frank and Joe watched each of them move by. Finally, when the plane was almost empty, the Hardys got up.

"Here's something else that's funny." Joe lowered his voice. "I just recognized about half a dozen of the people on this plane."

"Me, too," Frank said, frowning. "We've seen their faces in those investigator's updates Dad gets. They're criminals."

"Thieves," Joe added. "Just like Charity. What are they all doing in San Diego at the same time?"

"Do criminals have conventions?" Frank asked jokingly. Then his face grew serious "Something's going on. The question is, what, and what are we going to do?"

They stepped into the terminal. Already the passengers were dispersing, but just ahead Joe saw a familiar hairless head, polished to a shine. "That's a second-story man out of Baltimore, named Chrome Lasker. Why don't we ask him what's going on?"

The Hardys pushed through the crowd, closing in on Lasker. The bald man didn't notice them. He was busy speaking to a guy in a white suit. In profile, the second man had a thick mustache and what looked like tiny, ratlike eyes.

"Lasker," Frank said, clamping a hand on the bald man's shoulder. Without missing a beat, the mustached man clipped Frank with a massive hand, knocking him down. The two men took off running.

"They're heading for the exit," Joe said as he helped Frank to his feet. Frank looked down the corridor where the two men had gone. It ended in double doors.

"That's not an exit," Frank said. "It leads to a service area. We've got them cornered. Come on."