The Crowning Terror (8 page)

Joe grimaced. "Do you get the feeling we're out of our depth?"

"That's putting it mildly," Frank said. "The question is, what do we do about it? We've got to get more information."

"I vote we get it from Starkey," said Joe. "I'm itching to take a crack at him, just him and me. I know I can make him talk."

"Yeah, he seems to be at the center of this, more than Uncle Hugh and what's her name— Charity? From the way Starkey's been acting, I know he has more up his sleeve than he's been telling. Of course, we do know where Uncle Hugh and Charity live, but we haven't the faintest idea where to find Starkey."

"What did he say his agency's cover was?" Joe asked. "Transmutual Indemnity?"

"Yep," Frank said. "Same as Uncle Hugh's old company. Of course, he'll be at that office, and we know how to get there."

Joe grinned. "Let's stake out the place and wait for him to come out."

Frank chewed his lip, calculating the problems. "It'll be tricky. If we hang around too long, they'll see us. We can't afford to be spotted."

"Let's check in some yellow pages to see if there are any secondhand clothing stores around. And also the closest place we can buy charcoal."

At first Frank stared at his brother, puzzled. Then, slowly, he smiled and went to get a phone book.

"I think that saleswoman wondered what we were up to," Joe said as he walked down Pine Street. He wore an oversize, crumpled suit with stains on it. A battered, floppy hat obscured his face, and two different shoes were on his feet. He tried to ignore the pain in his toes. He had carefully smeared charcoal over his face, giving the impression that he had neither shaved nor washed his face for days.

"We just should have told her we were going to be bums," Frank replied. He saw a modern concrete office building down the street. A bank was housed on the main floor, he knew, but an upper floor also contained the San Francisco offices of Transmutual Indemnity. "Good luck, and watch yourself."

They parted company at the street corner. Frank began to circle the block as Joe walked up to a trash can and began to paw through it. People walked near him as he dug, and wrinkling their noses, steered clear of him. Joe liked that. It made it easier for him to keep his eyes on the front door of the Transmutual office building.

By noon Frank had walked around the block a hundred times, and Joe had stretched on a lawn in front of a building across the street from Transmutual. He was pretending to be asleep, but one eye was open, watching everyone who moved on the street. People were swarming out of buildings, going to lunch. A tall, dark-haired man stood in front of the Transmutual building, glancing impatiently at his watch. I've seen him before, Joe thought, but try as he might he could not place him, and he dismissed the feeling.

At last the man called Mickey came out, his face a mask of rage. A few steps behind him was Starkey. Joe looked up, alarmed.

Frank had just rounded the far corner and was heading straight toward them. There was no warning Joe could give without blowing his own cover. Nervously he held his breath, watching Frank and waiting for the right moment to spring into action to rescue his brother.

To Joe's surprise, neither Mickey nor Starkey noticed as Frank walked by them. They were only interested in the dark-haired man. So, I should know him from somewhere, Joe realized. But he couldn't think of the name of the dark-haired man or where he knew him from.

Mickey turned abruptly and left, and Starkey and the dark-haired man strolled together down the block. They glanced in disgust at Frank and continued walking. When they were half a block on, Frank and Joe both followed, but separately.

At the corner Joe and Frank met. "That man," Frank whispered breathlessly. "You know who he is?"

"I've tried to place him, but couldn't," Joe admitted. "I'm sure I've seen him somewhere."

"You saw him in a limousine last night," Frank continued. "Picture him with a beard and an eye patch."

Joe blinked. "What? You mean — " "It's Feodor," Frank said. "He's working with Starkey."

"Wait a minute," Joe said. "Starkey working with the Russians? That doesn't make sense."

"I'm starting to think nothing does anymore," Frank said. "Every time I think I've got a handle on this business, some new wrinkle turns up. It's making me mad, Joe. When I think how people are playing games with Uncle Hugh's life — "

"We'll get to the bottom of it, Frank. One way or another." Joe kept his eyes on Starkey and Feodor. They walked up to an outdoor cafe and took seats at a table that looked onto the street.

Frank watched them carefully. Neither man looked as if he had been forced into this meeting. The pair chatted calmly, joking and laughing as the waiter took their order. They looked like old friends.

"I've got to hear what they're saying," Frank said. Before Joe could stop him, he shambled across the street.

The restaurant's outdoor cafe almost jutted out onto the sidewalk, which was separated from the tables by a low, wrought-iron fence. Frank shuffled past table after table, slouching and hunching his shoulders, trying to keep his face hidden by his hat and collar.

"We're set for tomorrow night," Frank heard Feodor say without his Russian accent. As he wandered past their table, neither Starkey nor Feodor paid any attention to him. Feodor poured two glasses of wine, and he and Starkey each took one. "To success," Feodor said.

Starkey laughed. "To crime," he replied.

"Speaking of crime," Feodor began. Frank stood by the curb, parallel to their table, digging in trash that had collected in the gutter. From there, he could hear clearly.

Before Feodor continued, he shouted, "Hey, bum!"

For a moment Frank considered hurrying off. How had they discovered him? He had made certain he hadn't shown his face. Was it something in the way he moved? he wondered. The way he was dressed? Or perhaps, he thought, Starkey wanted something else. Crossing his fingers, he lowered his head so the hat cast a long shadow on his face, and he turned to face Feodor.

"You mind, pal?" Feodor asked. "Go mooch somewhere else, huh?"

Frank nodded, keeping his head down and slamming his fists into his pockets. He moved off. He had come away with just one bit of information. But, he thought, what a piece of info it is.

From behind him, Frank heard Starkey call, "Take a bath!" He turned to see Starkey and Feodor laughing at him.

Then Starkey took a narrow manila envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table to Feodor. The dark-haired man picked it up, slit it open, and began to leaf through the contents.

Suddenly Starkey's expression changed. He angrily grabbed Feodor's hand, forcing him to push the pieces of paper back into the envelope. Feodor's eyes flared and his voice rose, but Frank was now too far away to make out the words.

Starkey threw his napkin on the table and stormed away as Feodor continued to yell. At the corner Frank waited. When Starkey had passed him, he wandered back toward the restaurant. Feodor was still there, gleefully pulling the pieces of paper out again.

It was cash, Frank saw with a start. He moved by before Feodor saw him again, crossed the street, and hurried back to Joe.

"Money?" Joe asked when Frank told him what he had seen. "Think it's a shakedown?"

"No," Frank replied. They walked through San Francisco, discarding their secondhand clothes. "It was more like a payoff. They were all chummy until Feodor started counting the money there at the table. I think Starkey didn't want anyone to see it."

"Wow," Joe said. "Starkey having Russians on his payroll. Are we talking public or private payroll here?"

"I don't know," said Frank. "But there's something I do know, Joe. Feodor's not Russian."

"What?"

"Feodor's a fake. I heard him speak back there. He's as American as you or I."

"Are you sure he wasn't just putting it on to blend in?" Joe asked.

Frank shook his head. "Remember I told you his accent and his pal's kept shifting yesterday? This explains it. They're just pretending to be Russian."

Puzzled, Joe said, "No, it doesn't explain it. Uncle Hugh spent years behind the Iron Curtain. He'd know the difference between a real and a fake Russian accent, wouldn't he?"

"He's got to play along. They poisoned him," Frank said. "Joe, he's being set up for something. That's the only thing that makes sense."

"Then we've got to warn him," Joe decided.

"No," answered Frank. "We still don't have enough facts. If Uncle Hugh's seen with us, they might just finish him off on the spot. The trouble is, we're still on the edge of things. We've got to force the issue and make people bring the information we need to us. It's the only way we'll be able to piece things together before Uncle Hugh's time is up."

"Do you have anything in mind, brother?"

Frank nodded. "We steal the crown ourselves."

Joe glared at his brother in stunned disbelief. "You're joking."

"Why not?" Frank said. "We know what they're after and where it is. We have the plans on how to get to it, and we can pick up the supplies we need at any hardware store. That crown is what they want. We take it, and they'll have to come to us."

Joe rubbed his chin, thinking for a long time. Finally a smile drew up his mouth. "Frank," he said, "I like your thinking."

The Carlyle Museum stood on the edge of Golden Gate Park in a tree-lined yard with a gated entrance. Great stone steps led past Greek columns to the main building. Flat and two storied, it seemed out of place with the Greek columns that led up to it.

Out of place, Frank thought. Like everything else in this business. He was crouching in the bushes in the twilight, and for the hour he had been watching, no one had gone in or out of the museum. He was certain it was empty. Nervously, he fingered the rope he wore coiled around his waist, wishing Joe would hurry up.

"Boo," Joe whispered behind him, startling Frank. Suppressing a grin, Joe said, "Sorry I'm late. I decided to stop by the library and do some research. Did you get the stuff?"

Frank held up a knapsack full of equipment and pointed to the rope. "What did you find out?"

"This is a private museum," Joe said. "It really isn't open to the public except on special occasions." Checking to see that no one was approaching, they dashed from the bushes to the gate, shimmied over it, and dropped flat onto their backs in the grass. As Frank checked to see if anyone had watched them, Joe continued. "The museum puts together cultural exhibits for the State Department. Exhibits are lent out to museums all over the world. Think that that has anything to do with anything?"

"Maybe," Frank said. "But we don't have time to wonder about it now. Let's go." They stood and crept carefully to the front door of the museum. The twilight was eerily quiet.

The lock on the door had a nine-key pad instead of a key-and-cylinder lock. "Just like the lock on Uncle Hugh's place," Frank said. "Only this one sounds an alarm as soon as you punch in the wrong combination." He opened the knapsack and pulled out a screwdriver, pliers, rubber gloves, and a length of copper wire. With the screwdriver, he carefully pried off the number one key and the number nine key, exposing the wire inside the lock. He scraped the wire with the pliers until metal showed through the plastic coating. Frank pulled on the rubber gloves, then took the copper wire and touched one end of it to the bare wire on the number one key and the other to the number nine key.

Sparks flew from the lock and showered the Hardys. The museum door swung open, but no alarm sounded. They went inside and shut the door behind them.

"That was easy," Joe said as they walked down the marble hall.

"It gets a lot harder from here on in," Frank said. He studied the plans of the museum. "I've got to admire Uncle Hugh's ingenuity. He was born to be a cat burglar."

At the end of the hall was an immense room filled with glass cases. The ceiling was high, and moonlight streamed in through a skylight. A sprinkler pipe stretched across the ceiling. In the middle of the room was the case they were looking for, but it was surrounded by railings, making it far out of reach.

"Watch the floor," Frank said. "It's pressure sensitive. Our weight will touch off alarms if we step on it." He pulled the rope from his waist, unwound it, and threw one end high into the air.

It struck the sprinkler pipe, but instead of looping over it, it fell back to the floor. Frank groaned and waited for the alarms to sound.

All was quiet. The rope wasn't heavy enough to trip the alarm. Frank reeled it in and tossed it into the air again. This time, it fell over the pipe and dangled down. Slowly Frank fed it slack until it hung almost to the floor. Then he grabbed the end, tied it into a slipknot around the other end, and pulled the new loop tight around the pipe. It held.

He climbed the rope until he reached the pipe. Joe followed him up, and they moved hand over hand down the length of the pipe.

Suddenly Frank froze. Someone was walking down the hall.

"Starkey!" Joe whispered as a figure appeared in the darkened doorway. "What's he doing here?"

"Shhh," Frank said. "I'm more worried about Mickey." The other man had appeared next to Starkey, and Starkey turned away from the door to talk to him.

"Any progress with our loose ends?" Starkey asked.

They're talking about us, Frank realized. Just great.

"We found their new hotel, but they haven't come back yet," Mickey said. "We'll get them."

"I don't want them fouling up my plans for Hunt," Starkey warned. "Shoot on sight, and shoot to kill."

We're sitting ducks up here, Frank thought. We're only safe as long as he doesn't look up. Then he saw the rope, dangling to the floor.

"Joe," he hissed. "The rope!"

Desperately, Joe swung hand over hand down the pipe, racing to get to the rope and pull it out of sight before Starkey saw it and discovered them. If that happened, they were dead.

As the Hardys dangled helplessly, Starkey slowly turned toward the rope.

"Mr. Starkey," Mickey called.