The Deadliest Dare (4 page)

Frank said, "This paper is expensive — it even has a watermark in it. That's what I'll track down."

"My job sounds like more fun."

"Depends on your outlook."

Joe wound the paisley scarf around his fist and stared at the phone. "Of course, if we're lucky, she may phone us again with more information."

"You didn't hear her over the phone," Frank said. "She sounded scared. And the more I think about it, the less I believe she was worried about the Hickerson Mansion."

Frank's face was grim as he shook his head. "I wish we knew more about this Circle—and what they do to people who talk."

Joe's hope turned out to be premature. They weren't lucky — the phone didn't ring all night.

However, the rain had finally ended early the next morning. By midday the sky was a clear pale blue over the water at the town of Kirkland. Joe was sitting on a white bench in the small park by the river, eating a hot dog he'd bought from a shop called Best Wurst.

Three ducks came waddling up from the river and immediately fell to squabbling over the remains of somebody's hot-dog roll.

Grinning, Joe wiped his hands on his paper napkin, stood up, tossed the napkin in a bright green trash barrel, and crossed to the main street of the town.

Halfway down the block, he stopped in front of the store he was looking for. The clothing boutique was in an old, narrow building. Its front window was large enough for only a single female mannequin, headless and painted stark white, wearing a candy-striped dress.

After studying his reflection, Joe decided he looked right for the part he was going to play. Taking a deep breath, he went on inside.

At the other end of the shop a plump woman of about forty stood behind a small glass counter. Since Joe didn't resemble the usual customer of Chez Maurice, she started to frown.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, smiling at the woman in a hopeful manner, "I sure hope you can help me."

"That depends, young man, on what you have in mind." Her frown deepened as he approached her.

Joe's smile got a little shy now. "Well, I think I've fallen in love."

She took a sudden step back. "And what can that possibly have to do with Chez Maurice?"

Resting one elbow on the counter, Joe said, "You look like the sort of person who's — well, romantic at heart."

"And if I am?"

"You see, I want to buy the girl I love an expensive present from your store," he began timidly. "My father gives me an allowance of considerable size."

The frown began to fade. "Ah, yes, I see, young man. You wish some advice in selecting the proper gift, is that it?"

"That's exactly right," Joe admitted. "But first, ma'am, I'm going to have to find out the girl's name."

"Beg pardon?"

Very carefully, Joe drew the paisley scarf out of his trouser pocket. "I guess maybe you'll think I'm sort of crazy," he began. "And, believe me, I don't often do things like this. Anyway, I was at a dance last night, at the Bayport Country Club."

"A very—nice—place. Many of our customers belong."

Joe spread out the scarf he'd found near the Hickerson Mansion the night before. "At the dance I saw this absolutely terrific girl. It took me quite a while to work up the nerve, but I finally asked her to dance."

"You don't strike me as someone who's especially shy."

"Not usually, perhaps," Joe said. "But when I met this girl — well, I don't know. I could hardly say two words to her. Then things became a bit complicated. I don't know how to explain — she left before I could get her name. All that she left behind was — well, it was this scarf."

"That's a charming story," said the clerk, smiling. "And I don't know if it's struck you, but your story is quite close to that of Cinderella."

"Why, no," said Joe, blinking, "that hadn't occurred to me, ma'am. Now that you mention it, though, I do see some similarities." He held up the scarf, "I noticed the label here—since she bought this at Chez Maurice, I'm really hoping you'll have some record of who she is."

The woman took the scarf from him, then examined the distinctive Chez Maurice label. "Yes, it is one of ours," she said, spreading the silken square out on the counter. "Ordinarily, we don't give out the names of our customers, but..."

"It would mean so much to me."

"Very well, let me find our record books from about three months ago. We sold out our supply of these rather quickly and weren't able to order more." Crossing to a small antique desk, she slid open a drawer and lifted out a thick leather-bound volume. "There are some shops that use computers, but Chez Maurice's doesn't believe in them."

Joe came over to the desk. "I hope you can help me find her."

"Well, let's see now." She started flipping through the pages. "Here's one—and another — two more." She began writing names in pencil on a sheet of lavender paper. "Here's one—and another. That's the lot, I believe." She closed the record book, returned it to the drawer. Then she brought the list up close to her face. "How old is she?"

"Urn?"

"The young lady—how old is she?"

"Oh, she's—about my age."

The plump clerk crossed off two of the names. "I assumed as much," she told him. "That leaves four. I happen to know two of these young girls personally. What color hair does your girl have?"

"Color hair?"

"Yes."

Joe looked up at the pale green ceiling. "Well, actually, ma'am, it's a shade I find difficult to describe," he said finally. "The truth is, last night at the club almost feels like a dream. I — I can't exactly recall every detail. All I remember is gazing into her sparkling eyes. ..."

The saleswoman sighed and handed Joe the list. "You'll no doubt find she's one of these four. But, whatever you do, young man, don't mention that Chez Maurice helped your little romantic quest in any way."

"No, certainly not. I — Aha!"

"How's that?"

"Nothing." He folded the slip and dropped it in his shirt pocket. "As soon as I locate her, I'll be rushing right back here to buy her a present."

Joe hurried out of the shop, went back across the street, and sat on the white bench. He'd just recognized the third name on the list — Jeanne Sinclair. She lived here in Kirkland, had very wealthy parents, and went to an exclusive private school. Over the last couple of months, Joe had met her several times. And each time he'd met her, she'd been with Biff Hooper.

Joe was betting Jeanne was the one who'd left the scarf and envelope for them to find. And that meant she was the girl who'd phoned the warning last night.

He walked over to an outdoor phone stand, took out the local directory, and looked up the Sinclair address.

"Now to drop in on Jeanne," he said to himself as he started for his van, "and ask her if she's lost a scarf recently."

A high stone wall surrounded the huge Sinclair estate. But as Joe drove up, he saw that the wrought-iron gate was open.

Joe slowed as he turned onto the curving driveway that circled through what had to be an acre of perfectly manicured lawn.

The house was a white colonial mansion with a five-car garage next to it. A small gray van with Goodhill Antiques lettered on its side was parked in front of the row of garages. All the doors were closed, but the front door of the house was wide open.

Something isn't right here, Joe thought. He parked his car in the drive, jumped out, and ran to the red-brick front steps.

Very slowly and quietly he climbed the steps to the gaping doorway. He halted for a second at the threshold, straining his ears.

Not a sound came from inside the big house.

Joe stepped into a long hallway that stretched the length of the house. At the far end, a high, wide window threw a long rectangle of bright afternoon sunlight onto the floor.

The edge of it just touched the body on the floral carpet.

It was a bald man dressed in black, probably the Sinclair butler. He lay facedown thirty feet from Joe and the doorway. His left arm was twisted under him, and there was a smear of blood across the hairless top of his head.

Joe thought he saw the man stir, moving his head slightly. So, he's not dead, Joe thought. But he sure needs help.

He rushed inside to aid the injured man— and that was his mistake.

Before he'd taken five steps, someone stepped out from behind the door. Joe's only hint of danger was a slight creak in the floorboards behind him. Then came a blinding clout to the back of his head. A second blow, even harder than the first, spread fire across his temple.

Joe managed to turn on wobbly legs. The whole world became gray, then went dazzlingly bright. He only saw his attacker in silhouette, a dark shadow raising an object to strike again.

Joe had to stop this guy, fight back, beat him off. But his arms and legs would only move in slow motion. Either that, or this guy moved incredibly fast. Before Joe could even raise his fists, he was blackjacked once again.

That was it. His arms dropped, and his legs lost it altogether. Joe fell to his knees. He swayed there, trying to get up again, but his body betrayed him. His muscles wouldn't obey, and his head pounded.

He managed one wild lurch, but it didn't bring him to his feet. Instead, thrown off balance, his dazed body merely toppled to the floor.

Strangely enough, as he fell, his vision became clear for a moment. He saw the broad floral pattern of the carpet clearly as it came rushing up at him.

Joe hit the floor with a thump—and then there weren't any flowers, there wasn't any floor.

There was absolutely nothing.

Frank sat, staring down at the faded Persian carpet. Or rather, he kept a wary eye on the calico cat stalking across it.

The problem was, this cat wasn't built for stalking. Her well-padded stomach brushed the floor as she moved forward, and she waddled rather than slunk toward his ankle. The cat darted forward—to rub against his leg, making a rattling, wheezing noise.

"Mehitabel," said the heavyset, gray-bearded man across the study, glancing up from his cluttered desk. "Don't go annoying Frank."

The cat ignored him.

"She's not annoying me, Professor Marschall," Frank assured him, trying to shift his leg away from the huge cat. Wherever he moved it, the cat followed with its rattling purr.

The professor was holding the sheet of cream-colored paper up to the light from a narrow, leaded, stained-glass window. "This is a fascinating watermark," he said.

"Can you identify it, sir?"

Marschall chuckled, causing his whiskers to waggle. "My job at the university is authenticating old manuscripts. Certainly, this paper is less than three hundred years old. But did you doubt I could identify it, Frank?"

"No, sir, that's why I brought it to you."

Professor Marschall smoothed the sheet out on a clear patch of desktop. Then he stared at it through a large magnifying glass. "Quite interesting, yes." Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes.

The elderly professor was a friend of Fenton Hardy's and had known Frank and Joe since they were small. When he was a little kid, Frank had thought the professor knew everything. Even today, he was sure of one thing — Professor Marschall knew more about paper than anyone else.

The big cat climbed up Frank's leg, jumped briefly into his lap, climbed across his chest, and sat on his shoulder.

Professor Marschall opened his eyes. "You shouldn't let Mehitabel take advantage of you, Frank," he advised. "Next thing you know, she'll be trying to sit on your head—and she's too old for that."

"Too heavy, too," Frank muttered under his breath.

The professor returned his attention to the sheet of paper that Frank and Joe had found near the Hickerson Mansion the night before.

Frank gave the cat a couple of pushes. She dug her claws into his shoulder. He pushed a bit harder.

Suddenly the fat cat fell off him, plummeting down to hit the rug with a furry thump.

"Oh, no! I didn't mean to — "

"She's not hurt. It's merely one of her stunts."

The cat rolled over on its back, thrust all four paws upward, and began snoring.

Professor Marschall grunted once, pushed away from the desk, and rolled back in his chair to a bookshelf. He tugged out a fat volume, brought the title up close to his face, shook his head, and jabbed the book back in place.

Then he selected another book, grunted in triumph as he looked at the title, and brought it back to his desk. Brushing a stack of notes to the floor, he set the book down and opened it. "This is perhaps the most exhaustive book on paper samples," he said, leafing through pages. "It ought to be. I assembled it myself."

Professor Marschall sucked his breath in through his teeth. "Yes, of course. I thought as much."

Frank got up, avoided stepping on the sleeping cat, and went over to the desk. "Will this really tell you where this paper comes from?"

The professor pointed to a sample of paper in the book. "You'll notice that this has the same exact watermark. Fortunately for you, it's a unique one — the letters E and B entwined with a leaping stag."

Frank attempted to read the notes scrawled under the sample — not easy, given the professor's spidery, sloppy handwriting. "Buch-wilder?"

"Bushmiller." He returned Frank's sheet of paper to him. "This stationery was made exclusively for the Bushmiller Academy here in Bayport."

"You mean that old ruin up on Woodland Lane?"

"It was not, much like myself, always a ruin, Frank, my boy. Bushmiller Academy was once a very fine private school — a sort of junior military academy." He grinned. "I believe it made most of its money handling young men who were a bit too devilish for a regular school situation."

"But Bushmiller Academy hasn't been in operation for years."

"Thirty-five years, to be exact," answered the professor. "A long and tangled family feud has kept the place empty all this time, and for at least the past ten there hasn't even been a watchman."

"But there could still be a supply of this particular paper there?"

Professor Marschall ran a thoughtful hand over his gray beard. "Perhaps," he finally said. "This is an excellent grade of paper. It could last that long, especially if it was in a protected environment — say, locked in a desk."