Double Exposure (9 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Joe nodded. "Jean Eykis. Has to be."
Frank turned. "Chris, what do you know about—"
But Chris wasn't there.
"He's got a real bad habit of disappearing," Joe said.
"I don't believe this!" Frank shook his head. "Come on, he must still be inside."
He and Joe raced back upstairs. At the entrance to the stairway, where Joe had knocked down the door, Frank stopped and picked something up off the floor.
"Liehm's gun," he said and frowned.
"What?" Joe asked.
"Why would he leave this?"
"I don't know!" Joe said angrily. "Nothing he's done so far has made any sense!"
Frank shook his head slowly. "I really thought Chris was going to level with us this time. Whose side is he on?"
"His own, apparently," Joe said.
Frank looked around the offices. "Liehm's gone!" he said. "We should have tied him up. How could we be so dumb? You know, this place has even more computer equipment than Chris's basement."
"That's obviously the link between Chris and Gregor and Liehm — but what's it all mean?"
"I don't know," Frank said. "If we could get a look at that tape they sent Eykis, that might help us."
Joe nodded, then slapped his forehead. "Whoa. Hold on a minute." He ducked into another room.
When he came out, he grinned at Frank. "Almost forgot my skateboard."
***
Eykis seemed surprised to see Frank again so soon. After he introduced Joe, he told her why they'd come.
"We think whatever they sent you is the key to this whole case we're working on," he said.
"It might be some kind of setup, or a frame," Joe added.
She shook her head sadly. "I don't think so." She put her hands on her desk and stood up, leaning on her fingertips. "Well—you might as well watch it. You'll see it sometime soon."
She led them down the hall into a small room that was empty except for a desk with a TV set and VCR and a few chairs.
"This came about an hour ago," she said, unlocking the top drawer and taking out a videocassette. "The man who gave it to me asked me to call Liehm if I had any questions."
She inserted the cassette into the machine and turned back to them.
"Before I play this, I want you to know something. I've been writing for the Tribune for five years—and I've admired nobody in the world as much as I've admired Alexander Janosik." She sighed heavily. "This tape broke my heart."
Frank met her eyes and nodded but said nothing.
"That's the only reason I'm showing it to you—because I think it will break yours too. And because if there's any chance you can help prove it is a fake or a setup," — she managed a tired smile — "well, I'll take that chance. Otherwise, I'm stuck with a story that I really don't want to write."
She started the tape and sat down with them to watch.
It looked like the kind of film a bank's security camera would take, only with sound. The camera showed two men sitting at a table in an otherwise empty room. Frank didn't recognize either of them. Then Alexander Janosik entered.
Frank sat up and watched closely as the two men on screen rose to greet Janosik. They obviously knew one another, though their greetings were more courteous than friendly.
Janosik sat down at the table, facing the two men. They handed him a sheaf of notes and an envelope. Janosik glanced over the paper and opened the envelope.
It was full of hundred-dollar bills. Smiling at the two men, Janosik stood, shook hands again, and left the room.
The reporter stopped the tape.
"I assume you recognize Janosik — the two men you saw with him are Roger Douglas and David McCormick. They're both CIA."
Frank shook his head, unable to believe what he'd seen.
"Still think he's being framed?" Eykis asked bitterly. "Or are we the patsies in this picture?"
The Hardys said nothing. There was nothing they could say.
"Well, then, you'd better show yourselves out." Eykis stood and turned to go. "I have to get busy. I have a story to write."
***
Frank and Joe took the subway back to the Charles. Both were silent for most of the ride. Earlier that day, when he had listened to Janosik talk about what had happened to his country, Joe had thought of him as a patriot and hero. Now he didn't know what to think. How could he doubt the evidence of his own eyes?
"Frank," he asked. "Do you believe what we just saw?"
His brother took a long time answering. "I have to," he said finally. "But it doesn't make sense. Why would Janosik take a payoff? He doesn't seem like the kind of man who needs—or wants—a lot of money." He shook his head. "It just doesn't make sense."
"Nothing about this case makes sense," Joe agreed.
Frank knotted his hands together, frustrated. "I can't help the feeling that the clue we need is right in front of us, and we're just missing it. Maybe we ought to call in the police."
"The police? You mean Considine?" Joe asked, opening the door to their hotel room. "I don't think he wants to hear anything more from us."
He walked in the room and stopped suddenly.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," a familiar voice said. "There's a whole lot more I want to hear from you. Only I'd rather not talk here."
The lights came on. Lieutenant Considine was sitting on one of the beds. Two uniformed police officers stood by the window.
Considine motioned the two officers forward. "Let's take a little trip to headquarters, shall we?"
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT kind of police force you have in Bayport," Considine said, pacing back and forth in front of the small table where the Hardys sat—where they'd been sitting for the past four hours. "But here we don't look kindly on kids who fake graduate student IDs and break into hotels. I could throw the book at both of you!"
Joe glared at the lieutenant but held his tongue.
"Lieutenant, did you check those names we gave you — Gregor Krc, Finn Liehm?" Frank asked, taking another sip of the coffee in front of him. He'd almost nodded off twice during Considine's interrogation.
"I'm not interested in fantastic conspiracy stories, or how the Czech secret police is invading Boston Common." Considine tossed their phony ID cards on the table. "Let's start with where you got these!"
"Look," Frank began. "I told you—what's important here is that this Gregor Krc is on the loose and he intends to kill Janosik. Lieutenant, that's what you ought to be focusing on — "
"Don't you tell me what my job is!" Considine roared, slamming his hand down on the table right in front of Frank. Coffee sloshed from the cup onto the table.
His partner laid a restraining hand on Considine's arm.
"I'm going to walk out of this room for five minutes," the lieutenant continued softly, stabbing a finger in Frank's face. "When I come back, you boys had better be ready to give me some answers." He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"The lieutenant gets a little intense sometimes." His partner, a detective named Mitchell, pulled up a chair and sat in front of them. "But he's an all-right guy." He smiled at Frank and Joe.
"Maybe before he comes back, you could tell me a little bit more about why you checked into the Charles—in the room right next door to Janosik's."
The brothers exchanged a knowing glance. They knew this game too well, having pulled it a few times themselves—the good cop - bad cop routine.
"Like we said," Joe began, "we felt Janosik's life might be in danger. We knew that they— Gregor and Liehm, that is — were going to try to frame him somehow, so—"
"Please," the detective said, holding up his hand. "No more talk about Janosik being framed — we've all seen the film on the local newscasts tonight."
Joe glowered at him. "That's not the point, is it? This guy Gregor was crazy enough to shoot at me—and now he's after Janosik! It doesn't matter whether or not he took money from the CIA - his life's in danger!"
"So you say." Mitchell stood and began pacing.
"What about the kid whose skateboard I borrowed?" Joe asked. "His name's on it. Why don't you call and ask him about the shooting at the hotel?"
The detective smiled faintly, as if to let Joe know he didn't believe that part of his story, either. "We'll try that in the morning. For now, I'd like to go back to where you got these IDs — "
"Hold it." Considine walked back into the room, madder than he'd been before. Joe braced himself for another round of questions.
"Let 'em go," Considine said flatly.
Joe swiveled around to stare first at Frank, then at Considine.
"Let us go?" Joe asked.
"Let them go?" Mitchell repeated.
"You heard me!" Considine roared. "Let them go! FBI says the guys they're talking about — Gregor and Liehm—really are Czech agents. We've got orders to arrest them on sight. And those two guys we picked up unconscious at that Video Imaging place — they're STB, too."
He turned to Frank and Joe. "You must have some heavy friends in Washington, because they told us to let you walk — no questions asked."
Frank tried to hide a smile. "Friends in Washington" meant one thing to him the Gray Man and the Network. Despite the trouble they often had working with America's most secret intelligence network, sometimes the connection proved useful.
"We'd be glad to stay and help you look for Liehm and Gregor, Lieutenant," Frank said. "We've seen them close up — "
"Their pictures will be coming over the wire. I think we can manage without your help." Considine motioned behind them through the open door, and a uniformed officer brought in two suitcases. "I took the liberty of having your bags packed and brought here." Considine looked at his watch. "The first plane leaves Logan at seven this morning. Catch it. And I don't want to see you guys playing detective in my town again, is that clear?"
Frank and Joe stood but said nothing.
Considine pulled the IDs the Beast had given them out of their wallets. "I'll keep these, if you don't mind — even if you're not involved in the phony ID ring, like Washington says. I'd like them as little souvenirs."
His grin vanished. ' Make sure these boys get on that plane," he told Mitchell. "And then come see me — we have to beef up security for Janosik." He stalked out of the room.
As Frank and Joe reached the airport, a newspaper truck was just pulling up. Frank watched bale after bale of newspapers hit the sidewalk. "Hold on a minute," he said. Setting his suitcase down, he walked over and studied the headlines. "Janosik Took Money from CIA," they screamed. Janosik's picture ran next to the article, a shot the paper must have had on file. He was speaking in front of a crowd somewhere, and the photographer had caught him in midsentence, his mouth open, his hand waving as he strove to make some point. He looked exactly as he had the day before in the park, when he'd been speaking of freedom and great men.
"It says he's speaking anyway." Mitchell read the article over Frank's shoulder. "You have to admire his guts."
Frank took a deep breath. "I do," he said. He turned away and picked up his suitcase again. "Come on—let's board."
"I don't like running away from a case like this, Frank," Joe grumbled.
"We're not running, Joe," Frank said. "The police know about Gregor and Liehm now, and you heard Considine say they're beefing up security for Janosik's speech. We've done everything we can. We do anything else, and Considine'll lock us up and throw away the key — never mind what our friend in Washington says."
Joe still wasn't convinced. "What about Chris?" he asked quietly.
Frank shook his head. "What about him? He's disappeared again — along with whatever proof he promised us of Janosik's innocence. If he wants to contact us, he knows where we are."
He was tired, he was disillusioned, and he was hungry—and all he wanted to do right then was sleep. "Wake me when we get to New York," he said, leaning back in his seat.
The Hardys took a cab to their house from the airport—and found a surprise waiting for them at home.
"Mom! Dad! You're home early!" Frank said as he walked into the living room.
"And so are you, from what Callie told us," Fenton Hardy said. "Fill me in on this Alexander Janosik case. I can't believe what the papers and TV stations are saying."
"It's even weirder than you've heard." Joe flopped down on the couch. He and Frank hadn't slept yet.
"Well?" their father asked.
Frank looked at Joe. "Chris?" Frank asked him.
Joe nodded. "Ask them."
"Chris?" Their mother looked puzzled. "Who's he?"
"This is Chris." Frank took out the driver's license he'd been carrying around and handed it to his mother. "Do you know him?"
She shook her head and passed it on to Fenton, who looked at it a little more closely.
"No, I don't know him," he said, reading the license. "Hardy? Is he related to us?"
"That's what we were going to ask you," Joe said.
Their parents stared at him. "Go ahead, we're listening."
Joe opened his mouth, then shut it. "You tell them," he said to Frank.
"He told us — " He stopped and tried to start again, unsure of how to ask the question without seeming ridiculous. He looked at Joe, who nodded vigorously, silently urging him on.
Frank decided there was no way to handle it without being ridiculous, so he just came out with it.
"He told us he's our older brother."
Frank and Laura Hardy stared at him, then Joe, then they turned to each other.
"Well?" Joe asked. "Is it true?"
His parents began to laugh.
"What kind of a question is that?" his father asked, shaking his head.
"Boys," his mother said, still trying to stop laughing. "I can assure you you don't have an older brother! Whatever or whoever gave you that idea?"
"It has to do with this case," Frank said. He told them how he and Joe had met Chris down by the waterfront, how Chris had made his shocking claim, and how he'd known so much about their family.
"I saw his birth certificate—it's on file at City Hall. I also saw a school transcript."
