A Killing in the Market (9 page)

GERTRUDE HARDY COLLAPSED into her brother's arms, her shoulders heaving. While she sobbed, Frank, Joe, and Fenton Hardy stood with their jaws open. Gertrude Hardy sounded like a broken woman about to confess to murder!

"And those people in the photo?" Fenton Hardy asked. "They are you and Simone, Gertrude?"

Aunt Gertrude nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "But I can explain it all!"

Mr. Hardy put his arm around her and sat her down. "That's all right, Gertrude. Now, why don't you tell us exactly what happened — slowly, from the beginning." He gave her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

"I'm sorry, it's — it's just that the memories are so painful. ... " Her voice was choked as she looked desperately from face to face. Then, shaking her head ruefully, she let out a big sigh and began her story.

"The night he was murdered, Cyril and I went for a walk along the pier. As Frank and Joe will tell you, the two of us were having rather rough times. He seemed to be such a kind, gentle man at first. I'd never — never fallen for anyone so quickly. I felt like a young girl again!" A smile flickered across Aunt Gertrude's face, but it quickly dissolved into a frown.

"Then suddenly he changed. He wouldn't show up for our dates, he stopped returning calls. I was so angry with him that I decided to confront him at his cottage."

"And this was Sunday night, the night that he was murdered?" Officer Riley asked.

"That's right. It was about — oh, nine - thirty, nine forty - five or so. I found him in the cottage, working. He'd completely forgotten about the date we'd made. He apologized and suggested we take a walk down Bay Road to the pier. But all the way there he just seemed so — so distant, so uncaring. By the time we got to the pier, I'm afraid I completely lost my temper."

"And, uh, what exactly happened when you lost your temper?" Officer Riley asked.

Aunt Gertrude shifted uncomfortably. "You know, I've always been a peaceful, loving person. I've never done anything to hurt anyone — until that night. I — I guess I just lost control."

Frank was beginning to feel warm. He looked at Joe and his father and realized they were probably all thinking the same thing. Was Aunt Gertrude's "explanation" going to turn into a confession? Could she have done it after all?

"Before you go on, Gertrude," Officer Riley said, "remember, you have a right to remain silent and to have a lawyer present — "

"I slapped him."

A long, expectant silence stretched for several seconds. Finally Officer Riley looked at her blankly. "You—slapped him?"

"That's right. I think it shocked me more than it did him. Anyway, that's when we had our long talk, and we patched everything up."

"Then why did you leave by yourself?" Officer Riley asked, holding up the picture that seemed to show her walking away alone.

"I — I didn't. We left together," Aunt Gertrude replied. She took the picture and examined it pathetically. "I can't understand this. He and I were together the whole time."

"You're sure?" Officer Riley pressed.

Aunt Gertrude came back to life. "Of course I'm sure! Do you think I'm old and dotty? My memory is perfectly good!"

Officer Riley shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. "Well, Gertrude, it's just that this was the last time Simone was seen alive. Now I want you to think about that night — try to recall the anger you felt, and whether you had the knitting needle with you — "

"My knitting needle?" Aunt Gertrude laughed. "Oh, please, Officer Riley, why would I bring a knitting needle on a walk?"

Con Riley shook his head and sighed, looking at the photos. "I don't know, Miss Hardy, I just don't know."

"May I see those?" Frank asked. Officer Riley handed him the photos and Frank riffled through them. "As far as we can tell, these first few pictures are Aunt Gertrude and Simone. But this one ..." He held up the photo of Aunt Gertrude walking away alone. "This one must be an impostor."

"How can you be so sure?" Con Riley asked.

"I start by assuming Aunt Gertrude is innocent. Not only because she's my aunt — "

"But because we're supposed to assume a person is innocent until proven guilty," Fenton Hardy said with a meaningful glance at Con Riley.

"Harrrrumph, yes, of course," Officer Riley replied.

"My theory," Frank went on, "is that someone is trying to frame her. We don't know who yet. Now, this last photo does resemble Aunt Gertrude, but it's just fuzzy enough so that we can't tell for sure — "

Joe looked over his brother's shoulder. "Is there anything about the person that's different? Clothing? Hair? Anything?"

They all examined it closely. Frank tried to make out details, but the lighting was so dark, it was hard to tell.

"That dress could be any color," Aunt Gertrude said. "And the hair looks like mine, but for all I know it could be a wig."

"The lights along the pier are the same," Mr. Hardy said, scratching his chin. "If there were only some way to tell that these pictures were taken at different times, or on different days - "

Joe scrutinized the photos carefully. "The same boats are in the water in each shot."

"And judging from the way they're reflecting the streetlights, they seem to be at the same level," Frank added. "That means the tides are about the same."

"Too bad the moon isn't in the photos," Fenton Hardy remarked. "We could check its shape and position."

Frank looked closely at the almost pitch-black skies. "This must be some film," he said. "It picked up every possible light source." He pointed to the stars, which showed up as tiny flecks of white. He flipped from photo to photo.

"Hmm," Frank said. "Same star formations in each one of these — "

Joe turned the last photo so he could see it better. He put his face close to it, squinting. "Except for the little dots in this one ..."

"Probably a plane passing overhead," Frank suggested. Suddenly his face lit up. "That's it!" he exclaimed.

"What's it?" Aunt Gertrude asked.

Frank grabbed Aunt Gertrude's hand. "Aunt Gertrude, do you remember seeing or hearing a plane?"

"Well — no, I don't believe so," Aunt Gertrude answered. "But honestly, Frank, that's not the sort of thing that would stick in my mind."

"True," Frank said, a gleam in his eyes. "But if there was a flight that night, there would be a record of it at the Bayport/Barmet Airport!"

"Good point," Fenton Hardy said with a proud smile. "Can you get it for us, Con?"

"You bet," Officer Riley answered. He went over to the phone and punched the number. "Hello, this is Officer Con Riley, Bayport police. I need someone who handles the list of all flights in and out of the airport. Yes, hello, ma'am. I need to know all the flights into and out of the airport this past Sunday night. After twenty-one hundred hours, please." Officer Riley furrowed his brow. "Mm - hmm ... Yes ... You're sure?"

"What's she saying?" Joe demanded.

"Just a second, ma'am." Officer Riley pressed the hold button. "No go. There were three flights—nine forty-two, ten oh-seven, ten twenty-three."

A look of disappointment washed across everyone's faces. Frank stared at the picture again, as if looking for inspiration.

Officer Riley put the phone to his mouth. "Okay, thank you for your help, ma'am. ..."

"Wait!" Frank shouted before Officer Riley could hang up. He held up the picture and pointed to the water. "Ask her which flights had a pattern that took it over Barmet Bay."

Officer Riley asked her the question, grunted "mm - hmm" a couple of times, and hung up the phone. "All flights that night came in from the northwest." A wide smile grew across his face. "None of them had a traffic pattern that put them anywhere near the bay! According to the flight log, there was a flight over the bay on Monday night. Whoever took that picture had to have done it on Monday—the day after the murder."

"All riiiiight!" Joe yelled, giving a little punch in the air.

"Well," said Officer Riley with a smile, "this doesn't really prove anything. But it gives us cause to doubt. I'm going to allow you to go home if your brother will be responsible and post bail." Fenton Hardy nodded. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

Aunt Gertrude didn't say a word. But the warm hug she gave Mr. Hardy and the boys left no doubt how she felt.

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "That part was easy. Now all we have to do is figure out who took the picture—and who the impostor was."

Frank and Joe drove home in the van while Mr. Hardy took Aunt Gertrude in his car. They all arrived at the house at the same time to find the door locked and the answering machine blinking.

"That must be for one of you," Fenton Hardy said with a grin. "Everyone else thinks we're still away on vacation."

"Where's Mom?" Joe asked, looking around.

"Over at the Halperns," Fenton Hardy said. "They saw us come in and invited us to dinner." He looked at his watch. "To which I'm very late. Gertrude, do you want to come? I know you're welcome."

"No, Fenton, I just want to have a hot bath and sit in my own house and not move."

"See you!" With that, Fenton gave his sister a quick kiss and left.

Frank flicked on the answering machine's replay button. The first message was from Callie.

"Call me when you get in, Frank. I want to know how the day went — "

"So she can tell us how we could have done it better!" Joe said with a chuckle. The boys started walking into the kitchen, but the sound of the next message stopped them in their tracks.

"Hello, Frank and Joe. Justin Spears here. I'm calling to let you know I've come across some startling new information. I don't want to talk over the phone, so I'm having it carried to your house by messenger. He'll be on the three oh-five train to Bayport."

"Carried to our house?" Frank said. "I don't see any sign of — "

"Shhh!" Joe hissed. "The next message is Spears too!"

This time Spears sounded frantic. There was a slamming noise in the background, as if someone were trying to smash in a door. "You've got to get that briefcase — it may still be on the train! I — I don't have much time to talk. Listen closely. The stuff is crucial! It shows that — "

A sudden crash drowned out Spears's voice.

"Nooooo!" Spears screamed. "Let go — grrrraggggh!"

There was the bonk of a phone receiver clattering to the floor. Then all the Hardys could hear were fragmented sounds, like those of a struggle. Things crashing around and gasping, followed by what sounded like someone making horrible choking noises. Then came a dull thud, followed by silence.

Finally, with the cold click of the phone being replaced, the message came to an abrupt end.

JOE SLAMMED HIS hand down on the phone stand. "I don't believe this! Someone nailing Spears. And what is this about a briefcase?"

Frank yanked the handset off the phone and called New York City Information. "Justin Spears please — a business number." He thought for a moment. "The home phone, too, if you have one." Taking a pencil out of a holder, he wrote down the numbers.

He tried both numbers. No one answered at the office, and he had to leave an urgent message to call him on Spears's home phone machine.

"I don't like the feeling I'm getting," Frank said, replacing the handset. "He's probably lying on the floor of his office!"

Aunt Gertrude put a hand to her chest. "Oh, my goodness," she exclaimed. "Do you really think something happened to him? What can we do?"

"Call the New York City police," Joe suggested.

Suddenly Aunt Gertrude groaned and clutched onto the side of the phone stand. "You know, this is getting to be too much for me. I'd like to lie down."

"I'll help you upstairs," Joe volunteered. He walked Aunt Gertrude to her room while Frank called the police.

By the time Joe came back downstairs, Frank was pacing back and forth. "The three oh-five ..." Frank said, almost to himself. "That was the train we almost took."

"If only we'd known! Spears's messenger could have met us at the station."

Suddenly Frank's eyes widened. "Spears's messenger! Of course! Remember who we saw pushing his way out of the train as if his life depended on it?"

Immediately the image came back to Joe. "Bart," he said. "Spears's assistant! But why?"

"Because he really did feel as if his life depended on it! He recognized Fleckman's goons — they must have been the men who beat him up and trashed Spears's office. So he thought they were after him—or the contents of his briefcase! Do you remember what he had with him as he came out of the train?"

Joe thought back. "Nothing, I think." A look of realization came over his face. "And that's why Spears called — because Bart left the briefcase on the train!"

"The important thing is that it might still be on that train, and we've got to find it!"

Joe looked at his watch. "It's six already. The train goes only as far as Bridgefield. It's been there and gone."

"Yeah, but they must have a lost and found ..."

Frank was out the door before Joe could finish. He jumped into the front seat of the van. Within seconds Joe was next to him and they were on their way to Bridgefield.

"What if someone took it?" Joe asked as they entered the ramp to the highway.

"Let's hope not," Frank answered. "Maybe no one even noticed it."

Joe looked ahead of them at the highway. "Uh - oh," he mumbled.

"The last of rush hour!" Frank grumbled as he pulled into a line of slow-moving cars. "Just what we need."

Frank moved into the left lane, where the traffic was moving the fastest—and that was still slightly more than a crawl.

They sat in frustrated silence for a few minutes, until Joe said, "I just can't figure it out."

"Which part?" Frank asked.

"The main one—who killed Simone. I mean, there are motives all over the place. It's clear that Fleckman might have done it. He did send his goons to kill us. But I'm not convinced Spears is completely innocent either. It seems hard to believe his story that Simone was almost broke when he died."

Frank nodded. "Maybe Fleckman was telling the truth about him. Maybe Simone really was an embezzler, and Spears is hiding his money."