Cult of Crime (11 page)
“If the brats have done their job properly, they’ll be leading the cops out of town by now,” the second gunman replied. “Let’s get these punks inside. These two,” - he pointed at the Hardys - “deserve to watch us rob this place. After all, we couldn’t have done it without them.”
The gunmen’s laughter roared mockingly in the Hardys’ ears as they were led inside.
“Where’s the Rajah?” Joe asked. “I can’t believe he trusts you not to run off with the money yourselves.”
“Shut up,” the first gunman snarled. “This money is ours. He doesn’t want any of it.”
“Sort of a reward for his faithful servants?” Frank quipped. But he was stumped. If money wasn’t the Rajah’s game, what was?
The gunmen ignored him. “That’s the last sequence,” said the one on the floor. He stood up as the bank vault clicked and whirred. Slowly the vault door swung open.
“This is it! We’re rich!” a gunman cried, but surprise choked his words. Stunned and bewildered, everyone stared at one another, then at the vault, and then at one another again.
The vault was empty. “So, the Rajah cheated you, too,” Frank said calmly.
“THAT MAN IS a smooth operator, all right,” Frank went on. “He’s got the money, and he left you here to get grabbed by the cops.”
“Shut up!” shouted the gunman nearest the vault. “You’re nothing but trouble, punk. I ought to ice you right here.”
“You just can’t stand the truth,” Frank said, raising his voice. The other gunmen turned to watch the fight. I’ve got to keep them looking at me, Frank thought, and continued, “You’re so dumb you think you’d still be tough even if you didn’t have that Uzi.”
The gunman sneered. “Keep talking, kid. Think I was born yesterday? I’m not putting down the gun no matter what you say.”
While everyone’s attention was on Frank, Joe slowly sidled up to the gunman nearest him.
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“You’re chicken,” Frank said. “You’re too chicken to even find the Rajah and get your money.”
The gunman steadied the submachine gun at Frank. “I ought to shut you up right now.”
“Hold it, Duke,” another gunman said. “The kid’s got a point. What are we going to do about the Rajah?”
“Shut up!” the one called Duke screamed. Joe leaped for the gunman nearest him. At the sound of a safety clicking off, Joe and the other boys threw themselves to the floor. Duke spun, pivoting away from Frank and riddling the wall of the bank with bullets. One of the gunmen shrieked and fell back, clutching his shoulder. Duke had gotten one of his own men.
But he had turned his back on Frank. Striking a karate pose, Frank lunged forward, smashing the heel of his hand against Duke’s back. His face frozen with anger, Duke spun as he fell, trying to get a shot at Frank again. Frank clutched the gun stock and kicked Duke away. The gunman slammed against the bank’s marble wall and sank, groaning, to the floor.
Frank turned and aimed the Uzi at the other gunmen. “We can do this the hard way,” he said. “But if anyone starts shooting, I guarantee at least one of you won’t get out of here.” The gunmen glanced from one to the other, silently weighing their options. “You going after the Rajah?” one of them asked. “You going to catch him?”
Frank nodded. “You know I am. We will, my brother and I.”
The gunmen exchanged glances again. Slowly the one who had spoken crouched and set his gun on the floor. Then he stood again, his hands raised high in the air. “If it’s all right with you, I want to live long enough to pay that creep back,” he said.
One by one, the other gunmen set their weapons down and surrendered. The boys got up from the floor and gathered the guns.
“I don’t get it,” Tony said. “How did this Rajah rob the bank? There wasn’t time after the riot started. He couldn’t have gotten here before his men.”
“He had plenty of time,” Frank said. “The riot wasn’t his cover, the incoming buses were. We were paying so much attention to his followers that we missed what he was up to. If he had the access codes, he could have come in here any time. The riot was just icing on the cake.”
“So he only wanted the money, after all,” Joe said. “I thought it was something more than that.”
“So did I,” Frank said. “I still do. There’s something here that just doesn’t add up.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Phil Cohen said. “I did the computer check, like you told me to. There’s no criminal record on Michael Hadley. So I checked on Shakey Leland.
“It seems our Mr. Leland took over a carnival late in his criminal career. It took a little work to get the carnival’s tax records, but when I did, who do you think I found listed as a mind reader and fortune-teller?”
“Michael Hadley,” Tony said in a bored tone. He hated it when Phil belabored the obvious.
Phil grinned and shook his head. “Not quite.” He offered the computer readout to Frank. “I figured you’d want to see this.”
Joe moved beside his brother for a look at the paper, and their faces turned gray as they read it.
Frank tossed the Uzi to Biff. “Can you hold these clowns until the police get back?”
“Just let them try to start something with me,” Biff replied. He gritted his teeth, showing them to the gunmen.
“Good,” Frank said. “Get some medical attention for the one who got shot, too. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” With Tony and Phil in tow, the Hardy boys started for the door.
“Wait a minute!” Biff yelled. “What’s up? Where are you going?”
“We’ve got to get to the Strand house right away,” Frank said without stopping. “As for what’s up,” Joe said, “you’d never believe it.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Fenton Hardy tried to lift his head. It wouldn’t move. He wanted to use his hands to raise it, but they wouldn’t move, either. They hung at his sides, pressing against cool metal.
He tried to remember where he was. Slowly the dull fog lifted from his brain. He was in a house, and he was gagged and bound to a chair. Emmett’s house, he remembered. What had happened? He recalled watching for the Rajah’s followers, and then Holly brought him some tea, and then nothing.
The tea! He realized. She drugged the tea. “Wake up,” he heard a deep voice say. “Wake up, Fenton Hardy. We need a witness.” A hand lifted his head by the hair, and he found himself staring at a muscular, dark-eyed man, dressed in silk. He towered over Hardy like a giant. Still dazed from the drug, Hardy shifted his eyes. Emmett Strand was tied to the’ chair next to him, and Emmett’s sad eyes were focused on something beyond the tall man.
Then the man let go of Hardy’s hair and stepped aside, and Fenton Hardy saw what Emmett Strand saw.
There, dressed in fine purple silks, was Holly Strand. She stood contentedly, a vacant gleam in her eyes, which were fixed on the tall man. In her hand was a butcher knife. “We need a witness,” the tall man repeated, “to the trial and execution of Emmett Strand.” Fenton Hardy strained at the ropes that bound him to the chair, but they held firm. He knew, finally, whom he faced. It was the Rajah. Hardy had never seen the man before, but he understood the mad gleam in his eye. Before, Fenton Hardy believed the Rajah was nothing more than a clever con man, out to swindle children of their property and their futures. But face-to-face with the Rajah, he knew how wrong he had been.
For the Rajah had the look of a man who listened to voices in his head, who firmly believed in his own superiority. It was a look Fenton Hardy had seen in many other men, men who viewed the world through their own fantasies of power.
“This man has committed many crimes,” the Rajah said, resting a bony hand on Strand’s shoulder. “He takes money from the poor and keeps it for himself.”
“It’s not true,” Strand mumbled, his voice cracking.
“He has cared for no one. He has treated his business as more important than love, friends, or family. He has condemned his children to smother in the emptiness of their own souls.”
“No,” Strand said, a little louder now. “I’ve only got one child. Holly. I’ve always loved her. I always wanted the best for her.” “Old man,” the Rajah spat. “You lie!”
He stepped away from Strand, circling around Holly. She didn’t take her eyes off him. Her faith in him, Fenton Hardy could see, was total and absolute. She would work for the Rajah, she would die for him if necessary. She would even kill for him.
“Your life has been dedicated to taking, old man,” the Rajah continued. He wrapped a comforting arm around Holly. “You have robbed your precious daughter of her childhood. You robbed your wife of life itself. For these things, you stand convicted.” “No,” Strand murmured. “Please … don’t … “
“As you have taken from others,” the Rajah said, “so have I taken from you. I have taken everything. I have taken the money from your bank, and by doing this, I have taken your reputation. I have taken your daughter from you and given her a home where she is loved as a little sister. I have taken your peace of mind.
“As you took everything from me, I take everything from you.”
Emmett Strand stared at the Rajah, stunned. “From you? I’ve never even met you before! How could I take anything from you?”
“Silence!” The Rajah’s eyes flared as if on fire, and his smug sneer vanished, replaced by lips curled in rage. “You are a hypocrite.”
Holly stepped over to her father and raised the knife over his head.
“And now we take your life,” the Rajah said.
“WHAT GIVES?” ASKED Tony as they ran. “The Rajah’s got what he came for. He’ll be long gone by now.”
“No,” Joe said. “Frank was right all along. The Rajah isn’t out for money alone. He wants revenge.”
They turned a corner and broke into a sprint. At the far end of the block was the Strand house. Dusk had fallen, and the house was dark, except for a single light on the second floor.
“I don’t like it,” said Frank. “There’s no sign of Dad, but he wouldn’t leave. Not unless something has happened.” Or something has happened to him, he thought, and forced the thought from his mind.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Tony demanded.
“It’s really very simple,” Phil replied. “See, the Rajah used to work in the carnival with Shakey Leland, where he learned tricks like mind reading and hypnotism.” Tony was puzzled. “I thought you said Michael Hadley isn’t the Rajah!” Phil laughed. “Not quite. I said the Rajah isn’t Michael Hadley. Not really, anyway.” “Shhh,” Frank said. He bounded up the front steps and onto the porch of the Strand place. He tried the front door. It was locked.
“Dad!” he called. “Holly!” There was no answer. “Something’s wrong. We’ve got to break the door down.”
“Let me,” Joe said. He hurled himself against the heavy oak door. It held. “I’ll try it again.”
“Never mind,” Frank said, and peeled off his jacket. He wrapped it around his fist and rammed his hand through the front window. The glass broke and spilled into the house. A loud bell sounded, part of the house’s burglar alarm system, and somewhere in the Bayport police station, a light on a map of the town started to blink - a light that was unwatched, since the entire force was trying desperately to round up the rioting cultists.
With his wrapped hand, Frank knocked the rest of the glass out of the window. Peeling his jacket away, he reached a hand inside the house and unlatched the window. In seconds, they climbed inside. “There was a light on upstairs,” Frank said. “We’ll try there.”
Praying that they were not too late, Frank bolted up the stairs.
“Kill him, little sister,” the Rajah said. “Make him feel the pain that you have felt.”
Holly stood with the butcher knife poised over her father. “Yes,” she said gently, as if in a trance. She forced the blade down.
Outside the room an alarm bell clanged.
The sound startled her, and she pulled the knife away before it struck her father. She stared at the blade in her hands, holding it as if it were a snake that would coil around and strike her.
“Little sister,” the Rajah snarled. “Do as you are told.”
“No, please,” Emmett Strand pleaded. “I know I haven’t shown it very often, Holly, but - ” He paused, unsure of how to say what he had to say. He could think of only one way. “Baby, I love you.”
The door crashed in, and Frank Hardy stood there, glaring at the knife in Holly’s hand. Looking at the cruel leer on the Rajah’s face, he understood what was happening.
“Don’t do it,” he said to Holly. “Stop right now. For me.”
Slowly she shook her head. “He doesn’t love me.”
“Of course he loves you,” Frank said. “He’s your father.”
“Do you love me, Frank?” she asked. “I want you to love me.”
“And I do,” he replied. “But not in the way you want.” “That’s what I’d expect him to say!” Holly cried bitterly, looking down at her father.
“He deserves to die,” the Rajah said. “Kill him.” She held the knife uncertainly, waving it over her father’s head.
“Listen to me, Holly,” Frank said. “I know what you’re going through. We all want to be loved. “
“You do not know!” she screamed. “Everyone loves you! Your mother and father love you! Your brother loves you! Callie Shaw loves you! I love you!”
He shook his head. “And everyone loves you, Holly. Your father loves you. I love you. But people love in different ways. You can’t choose the way people are going to love you. You have to take what you get. That’s just the way it is.”
“I’m the only one who loves you, little sister,” the Rajah said. “Do as I say.”
“No!” Frank shouted. “He doesn’t love anyone! He hates, Holly! He hates! Do you want to be like that? Do you want to be like him?”
“She is like me,” the Rajah said smugly. “She is my little sister.” Frank turned and looked him in the eye. In a calm voice, he said, “I know.” Then he smiled.
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For the first time, doubt crept into the Rajah’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Frank said. “I had a check done on your background, Paul.”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” the Rajah said with trembling lips. “I am the Rajah, he through whom heaven shall be made on earth. I am the mightiest of mightiest, and nations shall tremble before me.”
“You were a cheap hustler in a carnival,” Frank interrupted. He was suddenly very tired and short-tempered. “Your name was Mikey Hadley when Shakey Leland found you pitching fortunes for a couple of dollars a shot.
