The Dangerous Transmission (8 page)

“What a mess that must have caused,” Nick said. “That's a real blow.”

“I went with Jax to the interview with the Tower guard,” Joe said. “He and the fireman really grilled Jax. They acted like he was a suspect.”

“Oh, I don't think so, really,” Nick said. “I've talked to them about Jax, told them he's first rate. I'll check in with the guard tomorrow—see if I can pick up anything from him. And I'll make sure he understands that Jax should not be considered a suspect.”

When they got to the hospital, the doctor talked to them. They were all relieved to hear that Jax had a mild concussion, but no broken bones or permanent
damage. He was still unconscious, but his vital signs were good. The doctors were monitoring him closely to make sure he did not slip into a coma.

“Do you need to have your shoulder looked at while we're here?” Joe asked his brother.

“Nah,” Frank said. He knew that it was a good idea, though, so he ultimately gave in. His self-prescription was confirmed: heat, rest, no lifting, no moving his arm back and up.

After Frank was released, he, Joe, and Nick went back out into the fog. It was even more dense and wet than before. And Frank noticed that something new had been added: an icy current of air that wove in and out of the mist. It seemed to go through his clothes, and even his skin and chill him from the inside out.

“Man, this weather is the worst,” Joe said with a shiver. “It doesn't matter what time of year it is. The fog always makes it feel like winter.”

“I know just the thing to warm us up,” Nick said. “It's just a few miles from here. The Tube will get us there in no time,” he added. He squinted his eyes. A few pale colors glowed in the thick clouds. “There's the station,” he announced.

Nick led the Hardys underground again. But this time, when they got off the train they realized that this was one of those stations that was completely above ground. The fog was a little thinner here. They could see across the tracks into the windows
of the apartment building on the other side.

Within minutes, they were in a small restaurant called the Fire Pit. It was not quite ten o'clock.

Tables and chairs surrounded the crackling fire in the center of the room. Curls of heat wrapped around the diners and helped them forget the gloomy air outdoors.

“Fish and chips is it for this place,” Nick told the Hardys. “I insist that you get it. If you don't like it, I'll eat it for you.”

They placed their orders and drank hot coffee while they waited.

“So, Jax will be all right, don't you think?” Nick asked.

“That's what the doctor said,” Joe said.

“And what about you?” Nick asked Frank. “What
is
a rotator cuff, anyway, and how do you hurt it?”

“It's a band of four muscles that are strung together,” Frank said, forming a circle with his hands. “They make a ring around the shoulder joint and give it support. It actually looks like a cuff made out of muscles.”

“How did you injure it?”

“I fell,” Frank answered, without missing a beat. “I fell hard on my shoulder and kind of twisted it.”

“Was this when you tumbled down the stairs last night?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Frank lied. “That's when it happened.” He just didn't want to share any of the evening's
earlier events with anyone until he'd talked to Jax.

“Have you figured out who did it yet?” Nick asked. “Jax told me you two are detectives. Do you know who broke into Jax's flat and tossed you down the stairs?”

“No, not yet,” Frank said.

“Jax said you caught Pierre Castenet sneaking around later,” Nick said. “That guy's a real nutcase.”

“He's pretty weird all right,” Joe agreed. “And he really wants to get his hands on the Molar Mike.”

“Well, I hope you don't have it on you, because he's heading our way,” Nick said.

Frank and Joe followed Nick's gaze and saw Pierre storming toward them. He was wearing the same red-and-white workout suit he'd been wearing the last time they saw him.

He stopped at their table and bumped Joe's chair. “Okay, what's going on?” he said in a loud voice. Several people at nearby tables looked over with startled expressions.

“Hey, Pierre, what's happening?” Joe said. He sat on the edge of his chair, ready to spring. Pierre seemed to be in the mood for a fight.

“That's
my
question,” Pierre snarled. “Are you two following me?”

“We're just here for some fish and chips,” Frank said. “Why? Should we be following you? Have you done something we don't know about yet?”

“Absolutely not!” Pierre bellowed. Out of the
corner of his eye, Frank saw one of the waiters and another man coming over.

“I already told you everything,” Pierre said. “And I told Scotland Yard too. And thanks to you, my hotel room was searched and my passport was lifted. I told them I didn't see anybody else around Brighton's flat. But apparently they don't believe me. So I'm warning you just this once. Stay off my back, or you and Jax Brighton are going to be very sorry!”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the man with the waiter said. “I'm the manager of this restaurant. Will you please take this discussion outside? You're disturbing the rest of my customers.”

“I don't need to take anything outside,” Pierre said, still staring at Joe. “It's settled. Leave me alone . . . starting
now
.” Pierre spun around and stomped out of the Fire Pit.

The manager scuttled after him, and the nearby diners went back to their meals.

“Well now, this place
is
fun, isn't it?” Nick said, grinning at the Hardys.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. They each knew what the other was thinking:
He's warned us—stay on guard.
Frank nodded his head and then looked around the room. “It seems Mr. Castenet got a little too close to the fire pit.”

“You know, this building is ancient,” Nick said. “It's been a public gathering place of one form or another since Henry VIII.”

A waitress brought a tray heaped with large cones of newspaper. Each cone was lined with wax paper, and it cradled huge chunks of fried fish. Nestled around the fish were dozens of equally huge chunks of potatoes—crispy brown on the outside, soft and mashed on the inside.

All three of them agreed it was just what they needed. They sprinkled malt vinegar down into the cone and dove into their hearty meal.

“Speaking of the ancient royals,” Nick said, “the exhibit is still on for Sunday. The Palace won't be cleaned up by then, but they moved the exhibit to the Waterloo Block. That's the same building where they exhibit the crown jewels. I hope Jax gets back on his feet soon. I need his help.”

“We're checking in on him again in the morning,” Frank said. “If he's awake, we're going over first thing.”

•  •  •

By the time they finished eating it was ten thirty, and Nick announced he had to get home. They all went across the street to the above-ground Underground station. Nick went toward the tracks for the eastbound train, and the Hardys went to the tracks for the westbound.

The fog was very dark and dense. Joe could feel it creeping into his eyes and through his teeth. It had a musty, sooty taste.

Visibility was so bad that he could only hear the
trains rattling into the station. He couldn't see them until the engines plunged the trains through the fog curtain a few yards away.

Joe looked around and realized that he and Frank were the only ones left on their side of the tracks.

A chill rippled along Joe's arms, and he wished he'd worn a warmer jacket. “I'd forgotten how the weather is in London. The air is so cold and wet,” he said.

He looked to his left, where Frank had been standing, but he saw nothing but the greenish-gray cloud-fuzz of fog.

“Frank? Hey, where did you go?” A nervous chuckle seemed to stick in his throat.

He heard a shuffling noise on his left, and then a couple of footsteps.

“There you are,” Joe said. “I was beginning to think . . .
Mmwhoomph!
”

He felt two hands wham into his side, forcing the end of his sentence out with a gush of air. For an instant he couldn't breathe.

Finally he was able to manage a huge gulp of wet air. All he could think about was grabbing the person who'd given him the side chop. He started to turn, but it was too late. He felt another blow jamming into his side again.

A wave of pain flooded through Joe's body. The ground suddenly seemed to fall away under his feet
as he sailed off the platform. A black object flew out into the emptiness with him. He fell onto the cold subway tracks, and a black shoe landed a few feet away. He felt the tracks vibrating beneath him. With an ear-splitting whine, the train barreled through the tunnel opening . . . and then through the fog . . . moving directly toward him.

10 Trapped in the Web

“Joe! Joe, where are you?” Frank called across the tracks.

Joe shook his head. It was like the fog had seeped inside his brain. It seemed to take forever for him to become aware again. First he felt the subway tracks under him. Then he heard Frank in the distance, calling his name. But Frank's voice was quickly drowned out by the rumbling of the train coming toward him.

At once all his senses surged. He knew he didn't even have time to stand up. With a powerful lunge, he rolled once, twice, and one final time.

The force of the passing car blew him farther away from the tracks. Joe sighed with relief as the train ground to a stop.

“Joe!” Frank yelled from the other side of the train car—the side where Joe had stood before being forced out onto the track.

“Joe, answer me!” Frank called.

“I'm okay,” Joe said, pulling himself up. He did a quick mental check and realized he really
was
okay. Nothing broken, nothing sprained.

“I'm out on the tracks,” Joe called back. “But I'm on the other side of the train.”

Just then an Underground security officer showed up and began yelling to Joe to get off the track.

“Excellent idea,” Joe said. “I'm on my way. But first I have to find something.” He looked back to the spot where the shoe had landed, but there was nothing there.

The security man scolded Joe when he got back to the platform. He obviously didn't believe Joe's story and thought Joe had jumped onto the tracks for the thrill of it. He told Joe, with a grimace, to stay off the tracks, and left.

“I couldn't figure out what had happened to you,” Frank said. “Someone brushed by me and knocked me onto a bench. By the time I got back over to where you'd been standing, you were gone.”

“The word ‘gone' is a little too close to the truth for me,” Joe said. And whoever it was didn't just brush into me. I was pushed—or maybe kicked—onto the tracks.”

“Kicked?” Frank repeated.

“The first blow felt like a karate chop, and the second was like a kick,” Joe said. “And by someone who really knew what he was doing. But whoever it was lost a shoe doing it.”

Joe rubbed his side as he told Frank about the black shoe that traveled through the air with him. “It's gone,” he said, looking around. “Wait a minute!” he cried. “Look!”

Joe pointed to the familiar yellow train car he had seen Wednesday night. “It's the tunnel cleaning train!” he said. “Remember? I told you about it.”

Joe ran back across the tracks, with Frank following close behind. Joe talked the tunnel cleaning driver into letting him look at the last few things the car had sucked in. Fortunately the driver could release the last few gallons of trash without having to open the whole carload.

With a wheezing belch the first item dropped from the car. It was a black shoe, now slimy from the tons of garbage and trash in the car. Frank grabbed a newspaper left on a bench, wrapped it around the shoe, and handed it to his brother. Joe tucked it under his arm, and the Hardys caught the next train bound for Jax's neighborhood.

At midnight Frank and Joe climbed the same stairway they had barreled down the night before. This time, though, there were no surprises waiting for them at the top.

As soon as they got to their room, Frank showed
Joe the case of shimmering powder that he had found on the taxidermy shop floor.

“That stuff looks like the inside of a shell,” Joe said. “Like those abalone shells we found on the beach in California.”

“And it might not even be a clue about the identity of the thief,” Frank pointed out. “Jax might use it in his taxidermy stuff. We can check with him tomorrow if he wakes up.”

“So do you still think it's possible that Jax was attacked by the burglar who's been hanging around this neighborhood? And that it has nothing to do with the missing tooth because Jax moved it himself to a safer place?”

“I'm just saying it's possible,” Frank said. “And I'm not going to blow Jax's cover if that's what happened.”

“Okay, I can see that. But what if that's not the case?” Joe persisted. “If someone has stolen the Molar Mike . . .”

Joe let his thought trail off as he got out his notebook computer. He opened the lid and fired up the machine. Then he continued his thought.

“Okay, I'm thinking we're going to find out that Jax did not move the tooth,” he told Frank. “And if he didn't, we can bag the idea that some stranger broke in.”

“Meaning, it wouldn't be that thief who's been hitting around here lately—the burglar that Officer Somerset told us about,” Frank said.

“Exactly,” Joe continued. “You said everything else in the place is the way it was when we last saw it.”

“Right,” Frank agreed.

“So if someone stole that tooth,” Joe said, “it has to be someone who knew the layout of this place. Someone who knew right where to go to find the safe and the Molar Mike. Someone who didn't need to tear the place apart to find it.”