The Secret of Sigma Seven (2 page)

There was a burst of applause and whistling at the mention of the film's title. When the crowd quieted
down, the young woman adjusted her eyeglasses and continued speaking.

“I'm Linda Klein, the convention chairwoman and president of the Bayport Science Fiction Society, or BSFS, as we like to call ourselves,” the young woman said, pronouncing the name of the society as “bissfiss.”

“We're really excited about the premiere of this film,” she went on. “Because science fiction fans have liked his Galactic Saga films so much, Mr. Devoreaux felt it would be appropriate to premiere the latest movie in the saga at a science fiction convention. We're really proud that he chose BayCon for this momentous event.”

She looked at her watch, then glanced at the door again. “Er, maybe you'd like to hear a little about the history of BSFS before we show the movie.”

“We want to see the movie!” somebody in the audience shouted.

“Well, we're not quite ready yet,” the young woman continued. “Mr. Devoreaux was supposed to be here by now and was going to introduce the film himself, but I'm afraid that he—”

Her glance suddenly shifted to the door of the room. Frank turned and followed her gaze. A tanned and handsome middle-aged man with platinum hair and a commanding manner strode down the center aisle, accompanied by a small entourage of men in suits. Frank recognized Simon Devoreaux immediately from pictures he'd seen in magazines. The two large men walking close to him looked like body-guards,
while the others trailing along behind were probably private secretaries or studio executives. One of them, a tall, ruddy-faced man with a mustache and curly reddish hair, looked slightly familiar to Frank. Devoreaux walked up to the microphone and stood next to Linda Klein.

“Mr. Devoreaux!” the young woman exclaimed. “It's . . . it's great to see you. We're all ready to see your new film.”

The audience began to applaud as Devoreaux stepped up to the microphone. Linda Klein moved off to one side of the movie screen. Frank noticed the angry expression on Devoreaux's face as he began to speak.

“I'm afraid there's not going to be a film tonight,” the movie director announced in a deep, clear voice.

“No film?” somebody in the audience called out. “I passed up a trip to Florida to be here!”

Devoreaux shrugged. “Well, there's no way anyone's going to see this film tonight—or anytime soon.”

“Why not?” someone asked.

“Because there
is
no film!” Devoreaux exclaimed.
“The Secret of Sigma Seven
has vanished, disappeared. In short, the movie has been stolen!”

“Stolen?” Frank jumped to his feet. “How did that happen?”

“We took every precaution against theft—or thought we had,” Devoreaux replied. “But some crook got to the film, anyway. One of my assistants—a former assistant, I should say— stupidly left it inside my limousine. When we entered the motel, the assistant realized he had forgotten to bring the film. I rushed back to the parking lot myself to get it, but it was gone. Someone had taken it out of the limousine.”

“I want my money back!” somebody shouted. “I paid good money to get into this convention, and it sure wasn't to hang around with all these freaks in weird costumes.”

“That's not my problem,” Devoreaux said curtly. “You should talk with the people who put on this so-called convention. I have only one more thing to say,” he added, glaring at the audience. “If the person who stole the print of my film is in this audience now, I want you to know that the studio will prosecute you to the full extent of the law when you are captured—unless you return the film this weekend, in perfect condition. And if any bootleg copies of the film should be made, I'll also prosecute anyone caught distributing them. Is that clear?”

Apparently, it was clear enough, Frank thought, because nobody asked any questions. Devoreaux stepped away from the microphone, exchanged a few words with the members of his entourage, then began walking toward the door.

After the director had left the room, Linda Klein moved back to the microphone and said a few apologetic words, but no one in the audience paid attention to her. Everyone was too busy talking excitedly about the stolen film.

“This is awful,” Chet moaned, a disappointed look on his face. “I've been looking forward to this movie all week.”

Frank leaned back in his chair and frowned. “You know, I'd be angry, too, if somebody stole something that had taken me a whole year's work. But Devoreaux doesn't seem too concerned about his fans. I mean, the least he could have done was to say he was sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I don't believe this whole thing,” Chet said.
“Who'd steal a copy of a movie? What are they going to do with it, anyway?”

“That's not hard to figure out,” Joe said. “They're probably going to sell it.”

“But who'd buy it?” Brian asked. “Only somebody who owns one of those big projectors”—he gestured toward the oversize movie projectors in the middle of the aisle—“would be able to watch it.”

“Not if they transferred it to videocassette first,” Frank said. “Just about everybody's got a VCR.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Right! Bootleg videotapes, like Devoreaux said. I read an article about that the other day. There's a big black market for videotapes of new movies. Especially movies that haven't even been released yet, like this one.”

“And I bet there are a lot of people who'd pay good money to get a videotape of the latest movie from Simon Devoreaux,” Frank said.

“
I
sure would,” Chet joked. Leaning forward in his seat to face the others, he whispered, “Where can I find the guy who'll sell me a copy?”

Grabbing a handful of the popcorn from the bag Chet held, Joe said, “Unless you want to go to jail, I think you'd better wait until this one hits the theaters here in Bayport. Anyway, Devoreaux must have a master print of this film back in Hollywood, so he can turn out more copies.”

“But who in this crowd would have the equipment to transfer a film to video?” Frank asked. “That's not the kind of thing the average person might own.”

“The average person doesn't dress like a zombie from Zepton,” Joe quipped, looking around the room at the rapidly departing crowd. “But most of these people probably wouldn't know what to do with the film if they had it, so they aren't suspects in the crime.”

“Suspects?” Brian asked, wrinkling his brow. “You guys really are detectives, aren't you? I've heard that you've helped the police investigate a few crimes around the Bayport area.”

“We like to pitch in from time to time,” Frank said. “Our father's a private investigator, and he's taught us about detective work.”

“So are you going to help Simon Devoreaux get his movie back?” Brian asked.

“We'll help him if he asks us,” Joe replied.

Frank glanced toward the door. Devoreaux was standing outside the room, talking to Linda Klein. The young woman looked upset. The movie director still wore an angry expression on his face. “From the looks of him,” Frank said, “he doesn't seem like the type who would ask us. Maybe we'd better leave this case to the Bayport police.”

Chet stood up. “Well, if we're not going to see the film,” he said dejectedly, “let's go get something to eat.”

“Not a bad idea,” Frank said. “Want to go over to Mr. Pizza with us, Brian? We can come back here later.”

“Sounds great,” Brian said. “Let's go.”

As the four teenagers left the room, they saw Simon Devoreaux and his entourage heading down the crowded hallway. Linda Klein trailed along after the director's group.

“Please, Mr. Devoreaux,” Frank heard her plead, “I wish you would reconsider your decision not to give your talk. We'd all like to hear what you have to say.” But the director ignored her and continued to stride down the hallway toward the lobby.

“Poor Linda,” Brian said with a sigh. “She really worked hard organizing this con. And Devoreaux was supposed to be the main attraction.”

“He's the main attraction, all right,” Joe said.

The chattering crowd in the lobby had fallen silent. Everyone stared at the director as he loudly ordered one of the men in his entourage to call his lawyers.

Just then the Hardys saw Brian look across the lobby, an expression of surprise on his face. They saw their friend was looking at a short, balding man in his late thirties. The man was standing inside the front entrance of the motel.

“I can't believe it,” Brian said, hurrying over to the man. The Hardys and Chet followed their friend.

“Uncle Pete!” Brian exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were up in Massachusetts.”

The man smiled at Brian in a distracted way, as though he had something else on his mind. Frank could see the family resemblance between Brian and
his uncle. Brian's uncle had the same round face and friendly expression as his nephew.

“Oh, Brian,” the man said. “Good to see you. Wondered if I'd run into you here.”

“Hey, guys,” Brian said, turning to the others. “This is my uncle Pete. Pete Amchick. He's a professor up at Boston Tech. Uncle Pete, meet Frank, Joe, and Chet, friends of mine.”

Pete Amchick shook hands with the teens, but Frank got the impression that he barely noticed them. Brian's uncle was busy surveying the crowd in the lobby.

“I'm hoping to talk to Simon Devoreaux,” Pete said. “But I need to talk to him alone.”

“Boy, did you pick the wrong night,” Joe said with a laugh. “I don't think Devoreaux's in the mood to speak to anybody right now.

“Oh, I think he'll want to talk to me,” Pete Amchick said, smiling slightly. “We have some things to discuss.”

“Well, here's your chance,” Chet told him. “Devoreaux's coming toward us.”

The Hardys turned to follow Chet's gaze. Devoreaux and his entourage were heading toward the door. The two large bodyguards kept the crowd out of his path as Devoreaux made his way through the lobby.

“Excuse me,” Pete Amchick said, stepping up to the director. “Mr. Devoreaux? Could I speak with you for a moment?”

The silver-haired film director paid no attention to Pete Amchick. Instead, he turned to a young man in his group and said in his deep voice, “I left my briefcase in my room. Get it for me, would you?” The young man nodded and hurried off.

“Come on, Uncle Pete,” Brian said, taking his uncle's arm. “Let's go grab some dinner.”

But Pete Amchick pulled away from his nephew. “Not now, Brian. I need to talk to Devoreaux,” Pete said urgently. “It's very important.” He started to approach the director again, but before he could say anything, Linda Klein walked up to Devoreaux.

“Mr. Devoreaux, I've notified the police about the theft,” she said. “Once again, please accept my apologies for this terrible occurrence.”

The director looked at her, a stony expression on his face. “Apologies won't get my film back, Ms. Klein,” he said. “If the film isn't returned shortly, you and the Bayport Inn will be hearing from my lawyers.”

Frank noticed that Linda looked very unhappy to hear this from the director.

“Eat photons, alien dog!” a voice suddenly shouted.

Devoreaux froze in his tracks and stared toward the door in disbelief. Frank turned to see a person dressed like the hero of
The Secret of Sigma Seven
standing by the door. He wore black armor and a helmet that formed a mask over his face. His long black cape almost touched the floor.

Smiling maliciously, the armor-clad man pulled a zap gun out of his holster and pointed it directly at Devoreaux, who was stunned.

The man in black pulled the trigger on the gun. There was an exploding sound, and a bullet sped out of the muzzle directly at the startled director!

Devoreaux jumped aside at the last second as the bullet whizzed past his shoulder, blasting a two-inch hole in the wall behind him. The echo of the gunshot reverberated through the crowded lobby for several seconds as all heads turned toward the person in black armor.

Frank Hardy rushed forward, grabbed the arm of the man who had fired the shot, and yanked the gun from his hand. To his surprise, the assailant put up no resistance whatsoever. He simply pulled off his helmet and mask, revealing that he was not much older than fourteen.

“Let me at him!” one of Devoreaux's bodyguards exclaimed as he rushed forward and grasped the teenager's other arm. Frank stepped back and let the
bodyguard take charge of the young man. He handed the gun to the second bodyguard.

Frank studied Devoreaux's assailant carefully. He looked tall for his age. He had pale skin and blond hair that had been messed up when he had pulled off the helmet. Frank guessed that he was as startled by the gunshot as everyone else in the room.

“That was a close one,” Joe said, stepping beside his brother. “You did a great job getting the gun away from that guy.”

“He didn't put up much of a fight,” Frank said with a shrug. “There's something funny going on here.”

“Hilarious,” Chet said. “When the bullets stop flying, maybe I'll be able to laugh.”

Simon Devoreaux walked up to his assailant. By now the bodyguard was pinning the young man's arms tightly behind his back. “Who are you? Why did you try to kill me?” Devoreaux demanded. His voice was angry, but Frank noticed that he sounded quite shaken as well. “Are you the person who stole the film?”

“M-my name is F-Fred,” the teenager stammered. “Fred Johnson. And I—I didn't try to kill you. I didn't even know that thing was 1-I-loaded! Somebody handed it to me and said I should shoot it at you as a joke. I thought it was just a toy gun.”