The Mark of the Blue Tattoo (4 page)

Tony followed the direction of Frank's gaze. “Who's the gray-haired lady?” he asked. “A new teacher?”

Frank explained, adding, “And now I'll bet she thinks you two guys are part of the Hardy gang.”

Tony just grinned.

“Fill me in later,” Biff said. “The bell's going to ring any minute, and Mr. Tolbiac's been on my case about showing up late.”

As the morning progressed, Frank asked friends in all his classes about the Starz. To his surprise, his question made some people very nervous. They made excuses and hurried away without answering.

Others were more willing to talk. When Frank spoke to a girl named Alesha before English class, she said, “Yeah, I know a bunch of them. And
these last few weeks, I've noticed they've gotten a lot more mellow. It's like they took the chip off their shoulder.”

“Why?” Frank asked her. “Any idea?”

“No question,” Alesha replied, pushing her hair back behind her shoulder. “It's Marlon who's done it. That guy is one shrewd dude. If he ever gets his act together, he could end up president.”

Marlon Masters, president? Frank spent the first few minutes of English class turning that idea over in his mind. He hastily put it aside when he heard Ms. Amity say, “Frank, what's your response to the point that Jenny just made? Do you think it's a fair assessment of what Hardy intended to do in this section?”

Hardy? Was the teacher talking about him? Frank wondered. About Joe? The look on Frank's face as he gradually figured out that Ms. Amity meant Thomas Hardy, the author of
Return of the Native,
made the rest of the class crack up.

After English, Frank had a free period. He decided to spend it in the library doing research for a term paper he was writing on the Civil War. His topic was the Battle of Chattanooga and the effects of the Union victory.

He had made about a half a dozen pages of notes when he realized that he needed to know more about roads and rail lines around Chattanooga, Tennessee, in 1864. Checking the card
catalog, he discovered that the library had an atlas devoted to the Civil War. It was in the far corner of the room, in a special bookcase for oversize books.

Frank found the book and looked at the index to make sure that it included a map of Chattanooga. Then he headed back to the table where he had left his notebook and the history books he was consulting.

He was halfway across the room when he saw that someone was standing at his place, bending over his books, with his back to Frank. Could it be a classmate trying to copy his notes? Frank wondered. He walked faster.

The person seemed to sense Frank's approach. Without looking around, he straightened up and hurried out of the library.

Now Frank was really beginning to worry. He lengthened his stride to cover the last twenty feet to the table.

“Oh, no!” he groaned.

His notebook and the two valuable reference books he had been consulting had been smeared with a thick coating of white paste.

For a moment Frank was too shocked by the sight of the vandalism to react. Then he grabbed his book bag, found a packet of tissues, and began to mop at the still-damp paste. Some of it came up, but in places the tissue tore off and stuck to the page.

A shadow moved across the book he was scrubbing. Frank glanced up. A bearded man was glaring at him. The photo ID pinned to his shirt pocket read Walter Winger. Frank thought he recalled seeing him behind the library checkout desk earlier.

“What is this mess?” Winger hissed. “Do you realize what you've done? Here, give me that!”
He reached for the book Frank was working on and pulled it away.

“I didn't do anything,” Frank protested. “Somebody put paste on the pages. On my notes, too. See?”

“I'll take care of these,” Winger continued, paying no attention to what Frank had said. He picked up the second damaged book. “As for you, I'm sending you to the principal's office. And I'll call ahead to be sure that Ms. Carl is expecting you and knows why you're there. Where's your student card?”

Frank produced his ID. Winger checked the photo against Frank's face, then noted his name and student number on an index card. “All right, Frank Hardy,” he said in a grim tone. “Get moving. And don't be surprised if your library privileges are suspended for the rest of the quarter. These books are meant to be used by students who know how to care for them.”

Frank slung his backpack over his left shoulder and picked up his notebook, holding it open to the vandalized pages. If Winger didn't want to know about it, Frank still hoped that he might manage to find someone in Ms. Carl's office who would listen.

As Frank entered the outer office, the secretary gave him a hard look. “I've just had Mr. Winger on the line,” she said. “You'll have to see Ms.
Carl. Destruction of school property is a very serious offense.”

She picked up the phone, punched the intercom button, and spoke in a voice too low for Frank to hear. Then she said, “Ms. Carl will see you now.”

The principal was standing at the windows, which looked out over the roof of the cafeteria and the tennis courts. When Frank entered, she turned to face him. She was a woman in her forties, with shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes that usually had a touch of amusement in them.

“Well, Frank Hardy,” she said lightly. “What is one-half of Bayport High's famous team of detectives doing pouring glue on library books? Is that some new method for picking up fingerprints?”

Frank felt some of the tension in his shoulders drain away. At least Ms. Carl hadn't already decided that he had vandalized the books himself. He explained what had happened and showed her his notebook.

“Why would someone do that?” Ms. Carl asked. “I'm not questioning your story, Frank. But I wonder what the motive could be.”

“Somebody doesn't like me,” Frank replied. “Or doesn't like something I've done or might do.”

“Did you get a good look at the person who did it?” Ms. Carl continued.

“I was halfway across the room, and his back was to me,” Frank replied.

“Hmm . . .” Ms. Carl put one knuckle against her lower lip for a few moments. Then she asked, “Mr. Vincenza spoke to you yesterday, didn't he?”

Surprised, Frank said, “That's right.”

“Do you think what happened to you just now has any connection with the investigation he asked you and your brother to take on?”

“I don't really know,” Frank admitted. “It's possible, of course. But sometimes things just happen. I don't have a solid reason to think it's a gang member or anyone in particular, for that matter.”

“I see,” Ms. Carl said. She crossed to her desk and picked up the phone. After a couple of sentences too low for Frank to overhear, she looked over at him and said, “Frank, would you mind stopping by Mr. Vincenza's office for a moment when you leave here?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “But what—”

“He'll explain,” Ms. Carl replied. “Oh, and don't worry—I'll let Walter Winger know that you're not the danger he thought you were.”

Frank left the office. What he hadn't told Ms. Carl—what he couldn't tell her—was that he had gotten a quick glimpse of the person who had smeared paste on the books. All he had seen
was his back, but even so, he was pretty sure that the culprit was Gus French.

The door to Mr. Vincenza's office was ajar. Frank tapped on it.

“Come on in,” Mr. Vincenza called from behind his desk. “Hi, Frank. Close the door, would you? Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk.

Once Frank was seated, Mr. Vincenza said, “I was planning to hunt up you and Joe at lunch-time, but Ms. Carl saved me the trouble.”

“Is anything wrong?” Frank asked.

“Just the opposite,” Mr. Vincenza replied. “First of all, I want you to know how much I appreciate how ready you fellows were to help out with the problem we've been having. And I'm happy to be able to say that we won't need to impose on you after all.”

“Why is that?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“By a wonderful coincidence, we're going to have a professional to deal with it,” Mr. Vincenza said. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Have you heard of an organization called Teen Peace? They've offered to lend us the services of a highly trained counselor, a woman named Hedda Moon. I've already asked her to see what she can do about the problem I told you about yesterday. So you and Joe can relax.”

“But, Mr. Vincenza, we were starting to get
somewhere in our investigation,” Frank protested.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Mr. Vincenza said with a smile. “Still, it's great that now we have someone with training to take care of it. We don't want to take your minds off your schoolwork, do we?”

Too late, Frank thought grimly, as his mind went back to the near-attack from the Starz members before school that morning.

•   •   •

English was Joe's last class before lunch. The topic was a poem by Robert Frost. Joe tried to concentrate on what Mr. Bennett, the teacher, and his classmates were saying, but he couldn't. He was too aware of Marlon Masters, two rows away, and the dirty looks he kept shooting Joe's way.

It was strange, Joe thought. Until today, he had never had any problems with Marlon. Now it seemed as if they had turned into enemies. What had happened.

The bell rang. As Joe put his notebook away and stood up, Marlon came over to his desk. Joe faced him and waited.

“There's talk around school,” Marlon said. “The word is that you and your brother are spreading lies about the Starz. You're trying to pin something on us. I don't know what, and I don't know why. But I'm here to tell you, it won't work.”

“And I've got something to tell you,” Joe said.
“Frank and I aren't doing anything. It seems as if you're really the ones looking for trouble. Who was it who tried to start something this morning? Not us, Marlon, and you know it.”

Marlon's eyes narrowed. “I've heard about you and your friends. You think you're so hot. Frank and Joe Hardy, boy detectives,” he added in a singsong voice. “Oh, I'm so scared. You tangle with the Starz, and you're going to find out what it's like to be scared.”

Joe couldn't help it. He started laughing. Marlon's face reddened. He grabbed Joe's shirtfront with his left hand and pulled back the right hand, ready to throw a punch. Joe thrust his crossed forearms upward, breaking the hold and blocking the blow. Taken by surprise, Marlon recoiled. Joe twisted at the waist, ready to follow through with a disabling elbow strike to his attacker.

“Hold it!” Mr. Bennett forced himself between Joe and Marlon. “Are you both out of your minds? You're looking at a week's suspension if you keep this up.”

Joe was about to say, “He started it.” Then he realized how childish that would sound. Instead, he lowered his hands and took a step backward. After a tiny pause, Marlon did the same.

“That's better,” Mr. Bennett said. “And don't think you can start up again as soon as you're out of my classroom. Marlon, you leave first.”

Joe opened his mouth to protest. Then he caught a glance from Mr. Bennett. “Okay,” he said.

Marlon walked away without another word or glance in Joe's direction. But Joe could tell that the argument was far from over.

“Now, Joe, what's going on?” Mr. Bennett demanded. “I had the impression that Marlon was trying to pick a fight with you.”

“I guess,” Joe said, looking at the floor.

“And that you were all too ready to give him what he wanted,” Mr. Bennett continued.

“I'm sorry,” Joe muttered. “I lost my cool.”

“Please try to find it again,” Mr. Bennett said. “You have more influence on your fellow students than you may realize. I'd like to see you use it wisely. Marlon has a lot of effect, too. He's a very strong character. But I'm afraid he may be headed in the wrong direction. Do you know anything about that?”

Joe hesitated. He liked and respected Mr. Bennett. But telling tales to a teacher about a fellow student went against his principles—certainly not without solid evidence of wrongdoing.

“Not really,” Joe said. “I guess he has a bone to pick with me, that's all.”

Mr. Bennett gave Joe a piercing look, then said, “Okay, Joe, off with you. I won't keep you from lunch. But I hope you'll feel free to come to me at
any time, especially if there's something you'd like to talk about.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Bennett,” Joe said. “You bet.”

As he went downstairs to the cafeteria, Joe stayed alert. He didn't seriously expect Marlon to jump him in the hallway, but Joe decided to be ready for anything.

Once in line at the cafeteria, he put Marlon out of his thoughts temporarily to ponder the day's choice for the main dish: spaghetti with tomato sauce or breaded veal patties. He chose the spaghetti and headed for the usual table.

Frank and the others were already sitting down when Joe arrived. “We've been yanked off the case,” Frank said in a low voice as Joe took a seat next to his brother.

“What?” Joe said, startled. “Why?”

“The school brought in an expert,” Frank told him. “And guess who it is? Hedda Moon, that woman who stepped in this morning when the Starz wanted to flatten us.”

“That stinks!” Joe said. “Just when we're getting somewhere, they call in some grown-up with a degree.”

Frank glanced around, then said, “I say we stay on the case. But we'll have to be careful. We can't let Mr. Vincenza know what we're doing.”

“Fine with me,” Joe said as he twirled a long strand of spaghetti on his fork.

“Tony,” Frank said, joining the conversation
with the rest of the table, “what about the Starz members you checked out?”