Night of the Werewolf (10 page)

Joe went out into the street and was greeted with excited relief by his brother and their Mohawk friend a moment or two later.

“Thank goodness you're okay!” Frank exclaimed, putting an arm around his brother's shoulder. “Boy, I thought you were a goner when I saw you go over the side!”

“I never even got a good look at the guy before he punched me,” Joe grumbled. “What happened to him?”

“He jumped on the roof of the building you went into,” Frank reported, “and then took off via the fire escape.”

“Well, at least he didn't get what he came for,” Hank Eagle added, displaying the lunch box. The paper and key were still inside it.

“That's a break!” Joe said with satisfaction. “Whatever he and his pals were up to, we seem to have spoiled their plans.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “So I guess we don't have to worry about warning anyone till we get a chance to talk to Dad.” He looked at his watch. “But maybe we should give Mr. Nest another ring.”

When he dialed the number from a nearby phone booth, the answering-service operator said there had been no further word from their mysterious caller. Frank promised to check again the following day and hung up. Hank Eagle invited the boys to stay overnight at his apartment in the Manhattan neighborhood known as the East Village, and they gladly accepted.

Next morning, Frank phoned Bayport. Fenton Hardy answered. When he learned his son was calling from New York City, the detective exclaimed, “Great! You couldn't have timed it better!”

“How come, Dad?”

“I've just had word from the insurance underwriters that the offices of Chelsea Builders were broken into last night. The safe was cracked and looted. I'd like you and Joe to go there and get a full report.”

Frank was startled by the news. When he related their adventure on the skyscraper skeleton, Mr. Hardy agreed with Hank Eagle's suspicions. “I'd say last night's burglary proves your Mohawk friend was right. The crooks probably had to break in and crack the safe because you fellows stopped them from getting the key and combination.”

The detective said he expected to leave the house shortly to pursue his investigation. So rather than phone back, Frank promised that he and Joe would stop off in Bayport before returning to the Adirondacks and report what they had learned about the burglary.

Chelsea Builders were located in an office building on Seventh Avenue near 38th Street. The Hardys found the premises swarming with police and newsmen. After identifying themselves as the sons of the famed private detective who had been retained by the firm's insurance underwriters, they were admitted at once to the office of the president, Karel Tabor.

With him was a younger man, whom Mr. Tabor introduced as his executive assistant, Neal Xavier. Tabor's manner seemed rather curt and worried.

“Can you tell us what was taken from the safe, sir?” Frank asked.

“Luckily less than a thousand dollars. Just the usual petty cash that we keep on hand.”

“Anything else of special value?” Joe inquired.

Mr. Tabor looked slightly uncomfortable. “We—er—don't have an exact list of the safe's contents just yet. The treasurer's secretary is compiling one,” he replied, then stole a hasty glance at his wristwatch. “Look, if you'll excuse me, I have a rather urgent appointment to attend to. Perhaps Mr. Xavier here can answer any other questions you may have.”

The Hardys refrained from showing their surprise. “Whatever you say, sir,” Frank said politely.

Neal Xavier, a sharp-eyed, hawk-nosed man with dark hair, conducted the boys into his own office next door and invited them to be seated.

“You're probably wondering why Mr. Tabor had so little to say,” he began, sitting down behind his desk. “Well, he had his reasons.”

The Hardys waited for Xavier to explain.

“The fact is, he suspects another firm of architects may have had a hand in the robbery,” the executive aide went on, “namely, Upton Associates. But Mr. Tabor feels it's unethical to make any accusations without proof.”

Xavier thumped his fist angrily on the desk and added, “Well, I can tell you right now that won't stop
me
from speaking out. I think a crook is a crook and deserves whatever happens to him!”

“Assuming you're both right,” said Joe, “that Upton Associates
are
crooks, why would they want to rob your safe?”

“Very simple,” Xavier replied. “For some time now, my boss has suspected Upton of taking illegal kick-backs and bribes.”

“From whom?” said Frank with a frown.

“From a crooked contractor with mob connections. Whenever Upton Associates designs buildings, they use their influence to see that that particular contractor gets hired to do the work, even though they know his firm is partly run by gangsters.”

“And in return,” Joe said, “you mean the crooked contractor hands some of the money he is paid for the job back to Upton Associates?”

“Right. Under the table, as they say. Since the contractor overcharges the customer, he can afford to return a share of the take to Upton. It so happens Mr. Tabor's been collecting secret testimony about such payoffs on tape. But now those tapes are missing from the safe!”

Before leaving, the Hardys asked if they could look at the company safe. Its door was hanging loosely by the hinges.

“Expert job,” Joe remarked to his brother. “Evidently the safecracker used just enough nitro to blow it open without damaging anything else.”

Frank nodded and knelt down to scrape some shreds of pinkish substance off the metal with his fingernail. He sniffed it and pulled it apart.

Joe puckered his forehead. “What is it?”

“Believe it or not, it's chewing gum!”

As the Hardy boys left the Chelsea Builders suite of offices and started down the corridor toward the elevators, they suddenly heard footsteps darting up behind them.

The next moment, each felt something jabbed in his back and a voice snarled, “Hold it, you two!”

Frank and Joe whirled around. From the speaker's snarling tone, they expected to find a hard-eyed gunman behind them.

Instead, they saw a smiling, freckle-faced young man in his early twenties. He held up a pen in one hand and a keychain flashlight in the other.

“Excuse the funny stuff, fellows,” he apologized. “Just wanted to make sure you didn't get away. You two are the famous Hardy boys, aren't you?”

“That's right,” Frank said.

“I'm Matt Dawson of the
Daily Star.
Just new on the job, to tell you the truth. But I'd sure like to impress the city editor, and getting an interview with you guys would be a step in the right direction. How about it?”

The Hardys exchanged dubious glances. Then Frank shook his head. “Thanks, but we'd rather not.”

“Are you or your father working on this case?”

“If we were, we couldn't talk about it.”

“Look, that doesn't matter. You wouldn't have to discuss the Chelsea Builders burglary,” the young reporter assured them. “Just an interview for a general feature story will do. Things like how you first got interested in solving mysteries; whether or not you expect to become professional detectives like your father; how your sleuthing fits in with your schoolwork, and so on.”

Frank hesitated. After consulting briefly with his brother, he said, “Okay, it's a deal, if you'll do us a favor in return.”

“Sure thing, if I can. What do you have in mind?”

“The
Star
is one of the city's biggest newspapers, I believe,” Frank said. “You cover all the arts, don't you, including architecture?”

“You bet! We've got as big an editorial staff as any paper in town, and one of the best in the country. A man named Earl Bruce writes a regular column on architecture in the
Sunday Star.”

“Fine. We'll give you an interview if you can persuade him to give us some information in exchange.”

Dawson grinned. “You've got it, fellows!”

The Hardys accompanied the reporter several blocks through midtown Manhattan to the
Star
building. Once there, Matt Dawson called the paper's architectural critic on an office phone to confirm the bargain. Frank and Joe were then interviewed and photographed for half an hour. Afterward, Dawson took them to Earl Bruce's office on another floor of the building and left the two to talk to the editor in private.

“Well, boys, what is it you want to know?” the genial, white-haired newsman inquired.

“First of all, sir,” Frank requested, “we'd like you to keep this conversation in strict confidence, if you don't mind.”

“Agreed.”

“Thanks. To get right to the point, then, what can you tell us about an architectual firm called Upton Associates?”

“Hm.” Bruce leaned back in his chair and began filling his pipe thoughtfully. “Well, they've been in practice for about fifteen years, as I recall. Do quite a sizable volume of business. Commercial stuff, mostly. Office buildings, factories, that sort of thing. Plus several bridges and occasional government projects.”

“Who runs the firm?” Joe put in.

“A man named Zachary Upton.”

“What's he like?”

A quirky grin shaped itself on Bruce's lips. “Let's say he's a man of strong individuality.”

“Has there ever been any trouble between Upton and Chelsea Builders?” Frank asked.

“Not trouble, exactly, but I believe there has been considerable rivalry between them. I know they've often put in competing bids on the same job; no doubt that may have led to a certain amount of hard feelings. After all, they can't both win out on the same project.”

“Have Upton Associates ever been accused of anything crooked or illegal?”

Bruce, who was just lighting his pipe, looked up sharply at Frank's question. “Not that I know of, although I believe Upton has a son who was convicted of some crime and sent to prison.”

“On what charge?”

The white-haired newsman thought hard for a few moments, then shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't recall. It didn't happen here in New York City. I just heard it mentioned in a conversation.”

After a few more questions, the Hardys thanked Earl Bruce for his help and left the office. In the lobby, Frank paused near a pay telephone.

“Maybe we should try to get in touch with Mr. Nest again,” he suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe agreed.

Frank slipped a coin into the instrument and dialed the number. When the answering service replied, he asked if Mr. Nest had checked in yet.

“Let me see,” the operator replied and consulted her notes. “Yes, he called this morning and suggested meeting you at the Soup Bowl restaurant on East 49th Street. He said he'd contact me again at eleven-thirty to see if you'd gotten the message.”

“Good enough,” said Frank. “Tell him we'll be there.”

Hanging up, the boy glanced at his watch. It was now ten minutes after eleven, so the Hardys decided to go directly to the restaurant and have an early lunch. After looking up the address in the phone book, they hailed a taxi, which deposited them in front of the Soup Bowl a few minutes later.

The restaurant was already quite busy, but the brothers found a vacant booth and ordered hamburgers and French fries. While they were waiting to be served, Frank mused. “I wonder if that gum on the safe got there strictly by accident, or if it may not tell us something more.”

“Good question,” said Joe. “You think it might have turned up on other jobs the guy's pulled?”

Frank nodded thoughtfully. One of the first principles of detection that the Hardys had learned from their father was that a crook's
modus operandi,
or operating procedure, was often the best way to identify the person responsible for a given crime.

“You may have something there,” Joe said. “Why don't you call Sam Radley? There's a phone booth over by the counter. You might catch him in if he's not working with Dad today.”

“Good idea.” Frank got up and placed a long-distance call to Bayport.

Sam Radley was one of Fenton Hardy's top operatives. As it turned out, he was writing a report at his desk and answered immediately. “What can I do for you, Frank?”

“I'm calling from New York, Sam. I wonder if you could check the files and see if you have anything on a safecracker whose known habits include leaving traces of chewing gum on the safe.”

Sam chuckled. “I don't have to look. It so happens your Dad wanted a rundown on the same crook recently, in connection with his investigation of those three building disasters.”

“No kidding!” Frank felt a surge of excitement.

“The guy in question is a young fellow, a regular technical and electronic whiz,” Radley went on. “Got out of prison not long ago. He has a habit of chewing bubble gum while he's working on a job.”

“And sometimes the bubbles burst and gum splatters the safe?”

“Right. That's how he got his nickname ‘Bubbles'. His real name is Lew Upton.”

“Thanks a lot, Saml” Frank hung up and hurried back to pass on the information to his brother.

The waitress had brought their orders, and Joe was already munching a hamburger.
“Upton?”
he echoed with his mouth still half full. “He could be Zachary Upton's son!”

“Check! The one who was convicted and sent to prison!” Frank said.

The two discussed the latest development eagerly as they ate lunch. Then Frank happened to glance toward the door. He signaled to Joe and said in a low tone, “Here comes our man!”