The Caribbean Cruise Caper (11 page)

Bettina gave a decisive nod. “Just like that. For
one thing, I still have a lot of respect and fondness for Walter. I don't want to drag him through the muck. For another, a public scandal of this sort would not do me or the shareholders of
Teenway
any good.”

“And suppose you guys caught up with Chuck? What then?” David added. “Okay, we all know he's guilty. The way he ran shows that. But what about proof that would stand up in a courtroom? And what was it he did, anyway? Some tasteless pranks. The police would listen with polite faces and laugh at us behind their hands.”

“Making people sick by putting a drug in their food is more serious than a prank,” Joe pointed out. “It was bad enough for you to talk about canceling the contest and sending us home.”

“You're quite right, Joe,” Bettina said. “That was a very nasty thing to do. But as you and Frank said at the time, the amount of emetic Chuck put in the fruit came to much less than even an ordinary dose per person. Nasty, yes, but not actually dangerous. I was so concerned out of a fear that his next move
would
hurt someone. Fortunately, your detective skills kept that from happening.”

“So call off the dogs and throw them a bone,” Frank muttered resentfully.

“Frank, listen,” David said. “I understand that the case feels incomplete to you. I share your sense of frustration. But there's nothing more to be done here. You and Joe should be satisfied with the fine
work you've done. You unmasked Chuck and brought his campaign of dirty tricks to an end. Now we can put all that behind us and get on with the contest and the cruise.”

“Fine,” Joe said. “But how about we go ashore and try to catch Chuck? Even if the law can't touch him, we could at least get a confession from him. With that in our hands, we'd be sure that this Mares guy won't try anything else.”

“I'm sorry,” Bettina said stiffly. It was obvious that she wasn't accustomed to having people argue with her decisions. “We're on a tight timetable. There's nothing to be gained from pursuing this any further.”

“Okay, we get the message,” Frank said, getting to his feet. Joe stood also. “You're the boss.”

Bettina stood up. “Thanks for being so understanding,” she said. “Unless you object, I'd like to ask Arnie to prepare something special this evening as a sort of celebration.”

“Sure, why not?” Frank said.

“As long as it isn't an ipecac sundae,” Joe added, without cracking a smile.

As they left Bettina's cabin, Frank muttered, “We're not through yet.”

“I didn't think so,” Joe replied.

The Hardys found Captain Mathieson in his office once again. Frank asked him for permission to search Chuck's locker. The captain clearly did not like the idea, but he agreed.

The crew quarters were in the bow, on the same
deck as the passenger cabins. A locked door separated the two areas. Chuck had bunked in a two-person cabin on the port side. As the newcomer, he had been assigned the upper bunk.

Joe did a rapid search of the bunk. He looked under the thin mattress and felt along the edges. All he turned up was a cassette. Apparently Chuck liked reggae.

Meanwhile, Frank looked through the locker. He was careful not to disturb anything. This was still Chuck's personal property, after all.

“Nothing,” he reported. “A couple of changes of clothes, a portable tape player, half a dozen cassettes, and a book called
Global Positioning System for Sailors.”

“I wouldn't mind taking a look at that,” Joe remarked. “So—no coded messages? No copies of the secret plans?”

“Nothing,” Frank repeated. “Zip.”

Joe and Frank returned to the afterdeck. Everyone crowded around them, asking how they had solved the case.

“The credit really belongs to Evan,” Frank declared. He explained how Evan had overheard Chuck's phone call and how they then found out Chuck's background from the captain.

“Who was Chuck talking to on the phone?” Cesar asked.

“Good question,” Joe replied. “Offhand, I'd guess some friend who was in on his plans. We'll be
able to pin it down better from the ship-to-shore telephone records.”

“Have you searched Chuck's belongings?” asked Sylvie. “Maybe he left some clues behind.”

“We can't comment on that,” Frank answered.

“Has anyone put out an alarm on Chuck?” Boris wondered. “Will he be arrested?”

“No decision has been reached on that,” Frank said, mentally crossing his fingers.

“How does it feel to break a case so fast?” Lisa asked.

“Great,” Joe replied. “But we had luck on our side. Luck, and a very alert kid named Evan.”

While Frank continued to answer questions about the mystery, Joe went to their cabin to wash his face. When he returned, he caught Frank's eye and made a gesture with his head.

Frank joined him at the rail. “What's up?” he asked.

“That call to the pizzeria was just before three-thirty, right?” Joe said in a low voice. “Look at this.”

Frank looked. Joe was holding the receipt for the ipecac syrup. Next to the date was a time: 3:26
P.M.

“There is no way Chuck could have bought the ipecac in town at three twenty-six and been back on board in time to order those pizzas at three-thirty,” Joe pointed out. “He must have been working with someone else . . . someone in the group who went ashore.”

“Someone in our group, in other words,” Frank
said. He tried to think. Had he noticed any of the others speaking to Chuck? He had to admit that, until an hour ago, he had barely noticed Chuck at all. The members of the crew became a little like the furniture, always there but not really seen.

“I've got an idea,” Joe said.

“Let's hear it,” Frank said.

“What if we set a trap?” Joe suggested. “Chuck's accomplice, whoever it is, won't be expecting that. We've all been talking as if Chuck was the one and only bad guy and the case is closed.”

“Hmm, yes,” Frank said. “Here's what we can do . . .”

A few minutes later the Hardys moved closer to the group around the snack table.

“We'd better lock all that stuff in the captain's safe,” Joe declared. “It's important evidence.”

“That's a total waste of time,” Frank retorted. “Chuck split. Who's going to walk into our room and take that file? Besides, I want to spend some time on it tonight after dinner. There may be more to this case than we've realized.”

“Well—okay,” Joe said. He glanced around and seemed to notice the others for the first time. “What say we go up to the sundeck? We need to talk over a couple of things about the contest.”

Joe and Frank climbed up past the captain's cabin to the top-level sundeck. Frank took up a position by the railing, in plain view of the people on the aft deck, and acted as if he were having a spirited conversation with Joe.

Joe, meanwhile, scrambled down to the pilot house, then down to the cabin deck. Once inside his and Frank's cabin, he placed a file folder in plain sight on the table. Then he ducked into the closet, closed the door to a crack, and settled down to wait.

It was a long wait. The stuffy air in the tiny closet and the gloom in the unlit cabin gave Joe an urgent wish to lie down and take a nap. From time to time he checked the nightglow dial of his watch. The hands did not seem to move at anything like normal speed.

To keep himself alert, he silently recited the lyrics of his favorite golden oldie songs. It worked, but he had to struggle not to hum along. He had just started trying to remember the words to yet another song when he heard a click from the latch of the cabin door. He eased the closet door open a little farther and put his left eye to the crack. A shadowy form was creeping across the cabin. The intruder picked up the file from the table and riffled through it, then started to turn to leave.

At that moment Joe felt a speck of something land in his eye. He blinked furiously, but the pain made his eye water more. Quickly he moved his head to put his other eye to the crack, but he was a split second too late. All he heard was the cabin door shutting.

Joe wanted to kick the wall, but he couldn't spare the time. He slammed the closet door open and dashed out of the cabin and into the corridor. To
his left a shadow flitted across the wall going upstairs. Joe bounded over and ran up the steps as fast as the narrow space and sharp spiral twist allowed.

Joe had almost reached the top step when he sensed a movement to his left, from within the telephone niche. He started to turn. A long, dark object came swinging toward his head. He dodged right, taking the blow on his shoulder, but the impact pushed him off balance. He took a quick step to the rear, but his foot missed the next step down.

Joe felt himself start to topple backward. He grabbed for the handrail, but his fingers found only air. He pulled up his knees. If he could get his head tucked and convert the fall into a roll, he might be all right.

Too late. Joe's alarmed shout was cut short when his head slammed against the edge of one of the steps.

The sundeck on top of the bridge was an elongated oval with bench seats along each side. Toward the bow was a Ping-Pong table and a locker for sports equipment. The yacht's old-fashioned blue smokestack, decked like a Christmas tree with radar, radio, and navigational antennas, cast a gnarled shadow on the weathered teak decking.

Frank had the sundeck to himself. He paced up and down. Occasionally he paused to look down toward the afterdeck, two levels below. The only person still in sight was Lisa, who was sitting with an open notepad on her lap. Where were the contestants? Was Chuck's accomplice, whoever he or she was, about to take the bait? How long should Joe stay hidden in the cabin
closet before he gave up and decided the trap hadn't worked?

Frank moved his lower jaw from side to side, trying to release some of the tension in his face. He understood the arguments Bettina and David had given for not pursuing Chuck. He even agreed with them, more or less. Even so, the decision to let Chuck escape irked him. Why go to all the trouble of finding out whodunnit if that person then thumbed his nose at you and walked away laughing?

A sudden shout from one of the lower decks broke into Frank's thoughts. The shout was immediately followed by a distant crash. What was that? He rushed to the side. Kneeling on the bench seat, he leaned over and searched for the source of the ruckus. All he could see was Lisa running along the narrow walkway that led to the foyer. Something had happened!

One powerful leap brought Frank to the head of the companionway. He grasped the two railings and let gravity carry him swiftly to the bridge deck, then down the next set of stairs to the main deck. He ran through the salon and dining area to the foyer. Lisa and several others were standing frozen at the head of the companionway to the cabin deck, staring down. Frank pushed past them.

At the base of the stairs, Joe was crouched on his hands and knees. He shook his head as if trying to
clear it. Frank darted down to his brother's side. Just then Boris and one of the crew appeared from different directions. The crew member took Joe's elbow and started to help him up.

“I'm okay,” Joe muttered, shaking off the hand. He pushed himself to his feet, then gingerly touched a spot just above his left ear.

“Are you sure?” Frank demanded. “What happened?”

“I fell and hit my head,” Joe replied with a glance at the crowd of eager listeners. “No big deal. I'm fine now.”

He gave Frank a meaningful look and started back up the stairs. Frank followed. The people at the top drew back to let them through. Joe paused to scan the telephone niche—Frank, too. What was so interesting? The wooden stool next to the telephone table was lying on its side. Otherwise, everything was just as it always was.

“Let's go out on deck,” Joe said. “I need some air.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of the others, Frank said, “Okay, what's the real story?”

“Somebody came for the folder,” Joe reported. “I couldn't see who it was. The person whomped me with something at the head of the stairs and got away.”

“Probably the stool,” Frank said. “You could have been badly hurt. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Joe said impatiently. He touched the side of his head again and winced.

“So our trap worked fine, but we didn't catch anything,” Frank mused. “Too bad you didn't see who it was.”

“I didn't see who it was,” Joe replied. “But I can make a very good guess. I recognized the perfume.”

The Hardys went looking for Sylvie. They found her sitting in the salon with a magazine open on her lap. She looked up when she heard them approaching. Frank could see her hands tighten on the pages.

“Joe? You are all right?” she asked.

Joe shrugged and didn't reply.

“He'll probably have the mother of all headaches tonight,” Frank said. “But I don't think there's any lasting injury.”

“That is very good,” Sylvie said. She looked down at her magazine as if she thought the exchange was finished . . . or wanted it to be.

“Sylvie,” Frank said, “Joe and I need to talk to you. Will you come with us?”

Her face pale, Sylvie followed them onto the deck. Joe dragged three chairs into a tight circle. The moment Sylvie sat down, she covered her face with both hands and started to weep.

Frank glanced around. Jason, Boris, and Cesar were all watching from a distance. When he glared at them, they slowly drifted away.

“I am so sorry,” Sylvie sobbed. “I never meant for this to happen. Never!”

“What is your connection with Chuck?” Joe asked.

She dropped her hands to stare at him. “Chuck?” She dropped her hands to stare at him. “Chuck?” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I have no connection with Chuck. I do not even know this Chuck.”