The Mark of the Blue Tattoo (7 page)

Joe shook his head. “Afraid not. But I got something almost as good. I saw the truck's registration number. It was one-seven-four.”

“Good going!” Frank said. He checked the
directory, then reached for the telephone. He cleared his throat as the phone rang, then in his best adult voice he said, “Hello, is this the Freddy Frost Company? A little while ago I bought an ice cream from one of your trucks, and I'd like to write a note to the driver telling him what a good job he's doing. Can you tell me his name, please? It was number one-seven-four . . . Oh, really? You're sure? Okay, thanks.”

Frank hung up the phone and turned back to Joe. “Truck one-seven-four is assigned to Chet Morton,” he reported.

Joe's jaw dropped. “Chet?” he repeated. “That's impossible? He'd never pull a dangerous stunt like that. Maybe I read the number wrong.”

“Or maybe it was Chet's truck, but somebody else was at the wheel,” Frank said. “It's too bad you didn't see the driver. I wouldn't mind knowing if he happened to be wearing a ski mask.”

Joe jumped up and reached for his jacket. “Let's go over to the plant to see if we can find the truck,” he said. “Maybe there'll be some clue to the person who was driving it.”

The Freddy Frost factory was an old two-story building in an industrial park on the west side of Bayport. Its neighbors included a gasoline bulk plant, a furniture warehouse, and a plumbing company. A high chain-link fence encircled the
asphalt parking lot, where a couple of dozen icecream trucks stood in neat rows.

The guard booth at the main gate was empty. “Tight security,” Joe remarked as he drove through and parked near the waiting trucks.

The Hardys climbed out of the van and walked down between the rows of trucks. The fourth on the left was number 174. It looked newer and shinier than most of the others.

“Which side of the truck hit the hedge?” Frank asked.

“The right,” Joe replied. “That's funny—I don't see any scratches. Do you?”

“Nope,” Frank said. “But look at the one next to it—number two-one-three. There's a bunch of horizontal scratches on the right front fender. They look fresh, too.”

Joe joined Frank in examining the other truck. He knelt down on the pavement and peered at the underside of the front bumper. “Look at this,” he said, straightening up. In his hand was a tiny sprig of green leaves. “This was caught in the bumper mount.”

Frank examined the leaves. Then he walked to the rear of the truck and stared at the number painted there from several angles. Finally he said, “If you catch the light just right, you can see two thin lines of adhesive, just above and below the number.”

“You see what that means, don't you?” Joe replied. “Somebody must have taped a fake number over the real one. Now all we need to do is find out who was driving this truck.”

Frank made a wry face. “I don't think I can pull the phone-call trick again,” he said. “How many calls do you think they get from satisfied customers on a normal day?”

“They must keep a duty roster or something,” Joe pointed out. “All we need is a look at it.”

The Hardys walked across the parking lot to the plant entrance. They went inside through a pair of big sliding doors and entered a glassed-in office. A man with thinning black hair was standing by the desk, looking down at a clipboard. He heard the Hardys' footsteps and looked up. His droopy cheeks, downturned mouth, and bags under his eyes reminded Frank of a basset hound. All he lacked were the long ears.

“If you're looking for work, we're full up for now,” the man said. “You can leave your applications if you want. We'll call you if something opens up.”

Frank took a chance and said, “Are you Mr. Vitello?”

“That's me,” the man responded. “And you are . . . ?”

“Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe,” Frank said. He offered Vitello his hand. As they
shook, he moved a little to the left. Vitello moved with him. That left him with his back mostly to the desk. “Did Chet Morton mention us to you?”

Vitello looked puzzled. “Morton? Oh, yeah—the kid who started yesterday. Nope, he didn't say a word. What's up?”

Frank started a long rambling explanation about a project for the Economics Club at Bay-port High. He and his brother were going to make an in-depth report on a successful local business, and they wanted to do Freddy Frost.

As he spoke, he continued to inch to his left. Vitello moved to continue facing him. Meanwhile, Joe wandered aimlessly around the office, looking at the posters on the walls, the bowling team trophies on the bookcase, and the truck assignment sheet that was sitting on the desk. Finally he gave Frank a thumbs-up sign.

“Anyway, that's what we'd like to do,” Frank concluded. “You don't have to decide now. We're just getting under way.”

“You'd better give me something in writing,” Vitello said. “It's not my decision, anyway. I'd have to check it with my boss.”

“Oh, we understand that,” Frank assured him. He noticed a file on the desk marked Flavor Contest. He pointed to it. “Hey, Chet told us about the contest. Is it too late to enter?”

“Tomorrow's the last day,” Vitello said. “The boss is going to look over the entries tomorrow night and pick the winner. But he's already talking about running another contest, maybe even next month.”

“Neat,” Frank said. “Well, thanks for your time. We'll be in touch.”

He and Joe left the building and walked quickly to their van.

“Well?” Frank asked, as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Joe looked over and gave him a satisfied smile. “Truck two-one-three was signed out by Gus French,” he said. “That call Mom got about Jefferson Park must have been part of a trap set by the Starz.”

Frank thought about that. It was the phone call that had drawn Joe to Jefferson Park. Once there, he was nearly run over by a Freddy Frost truck that had been deliberately disguised to implicate Chet. So far, so good, he thought, but something didn't quite fit.

“Joe?” Frank said. “Gus couldn't have known
when
one of us would show up at the park. And he certainly couldn't have known that you'd show up on your bike. And let's face it—a Freddy Frost truck is pretty conspicuous. You can't just park it somewhere and wait. People would notice and wonder about it.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “But where does that take us?”

“You said the attack came quite a while after you got to the park,” Frank explained. “In fact, when you were on your way back home. Why not earlier? Because Gus had to find out that you had gone there, then get there himself. In other words, he had an accomplice who watched our house, tailed you to the park, and then let him know you were there. You didn't happen to notice any red cars hanging around, did you, when you left our house?”

Joe bit his lower lip angrily. “I checked when I got to the park, but I didn't check at our house or along the way to the park,” he confessed. “When I'm driving, I usually keep an eye on who's behind me. It's second nature. But on a bike? I could have had a whole circus parade on my tail and not noticed it. You think McCay is in league with the Starz, then?”

“I don't know,” Frank said. “But I wouldn't be surprised. He's up to something, that's clear.”

They reached home as night was falling. Joe parked the van at the curb in front of the Hardys' house. The phone was ringing as they opened the front door. From the living room, Mrs. Hardy called, “That's probably for you, Frank. Callie has been trying to reach you.”

Frank raced for the phone and picked it up on the fourth ring.

“Frank, listen,” Callie said. “I spoke to Stephanie. She agreed to meet and talk to me. We made an appointment for eight o'clock, at the Starlight Diner on Route Thirty-five. You know the place, don't you?”

“Sure,” Frank replied. The Starlight was one of the last old-fashioned diners in the Bayport area.

“I'm a little nervous about going by myself,” Callie admitted. “Would you mind coming along?”

“No problem,” Frank told her. After some discussion, they agreed that Callie would go alone in her car, so that Stephanie wouldn't be suspicious of anything. The Hardys would go separately and be waiting in the diner parking lot at eight sharp.

The Starlight was shaped like a railroad dining car, with chrome siding and long windows. Joe drove around to the side and parked in a spot with a view of the entrance. The big neon sign over the diner switched back and forth from pink to green, casting wildly colored shadows across the parking lot.

“Do you see Callie?” Joe asked.

“Not yet,” Frank replied. “But we're a couple of minutes early. I'm sure she'll—uh-oh. Trouble.”

Four teenage boys were walking across the
parking lot, headed straight for the van. They all wore angry, determined looks. Gus French, swinging a bicycle chain, was in the lead. The boys on either side of him were holding baseball bats. The fourth, Dino, had a tire iron in his right hand and was bouncing it threateningly against his left palm.

The gang split up as it approached the Hardys' van. Gus and Dino headed toward Joe. The other two moved toward Frank, swinging their bats as they came.

“No ski masks this time,” Joe murmured.

“I guess they don't care if we see their faces,” Frank replied. “They're probably not planning to leave us in any shape to testify.”

“We'd better make a preemptive strike,” Joe said. “Look scared. We want to make them overconfident.”

“Looking scared shouldn't be hard,” Frank said grimly. “If you think it'll help, I'll look totally paralyzed with fear!”

Joe kept his eye on Gus and Dino. Moving
slowly, he reached over and grasped the door handle. Frank was doing the same on his side.

The gang was almost even with the front of the van. An evil grin spread across Gus's face. He drew his arm back to smash Joe's window with the chain.

“One,” Joe muttered out of the side of his mouth, “two,
three!”

Joe swung the door open. It slammed into Gus's chest. He staggered backward and crashed into Dino, who dropped his tire iron with a clatter.

As he reached to turn on the ignition, Joe glanced at Frank. One of the boys on his side had dropped his bat and was holding his hand to his forehead. Frank had a grip on the other guy's bat. He jerked the bat toward him, then, as his opponent tried to pull it back, gave it a hard shove. The small end of the bat caught the boy in the pit of the stomach. He yelled and doubled over.

Joe twisted the key in the ignition. With a throaty rumble, the engine came to life. Gus was on his feet again. He raised his chain for another swing. Joe shifted into reverse and hit the accelerator. The van lurched back a dozen feet, out of reach of the four startled hoods. Joe hit the brakes and flicked on the headlights, then the
two quarter-million-candlepower driving lights mounted on the front bumper.

Gus, Dino, and their two buddies raised their hands to shield their eyes from the blinding glare. Joe shifted to low and leaned on the horn as he accelerated. The four Starz jumped out of the way. Something banged against the side of the van as the Hardys sped past. Moments later they were on the street, out of danger.

“Whew!” Joe said. “Next time we run into them, I'd like the odds to be a little more even.”

“Joe, we've got to go back!” Frank said urgently. “Callie's car just turned into the diner's parking lot. She doesn't know those creeps are there.”

Joe slammed on the brakes and swung the wheel hard to the left. The van lurched into a tight U-turn. The tires squealed loudly. For one sickening moment, Joe was sure the van was going to roll over. Then it leveled off. He aimed the nose at the entrance to the parking lot.

The potent driving lamps lit up the shadowy parking lot, washing out the pink and green from the neon sign. Callie had come to a stop near the back fence. The four Starz were clustered around the same station wagon the Hardys had encountered earlier that day. As the bright beam swept across them, Gus came into sharp focus. Frank could see Gus looking around frantically, then
noticing Callie. With an ugly scowl, he ran toward her, his pals only a few steps behind.

Joe steered directly at them. He screeched to a stop, slapped the release button on his seat belt, and threw the door open.

Frank was already outside, ready for battle. “Callie!” he shouted, as Joe joined him shoulder to shoulder. “Get out of here. We'll take care of these guys.”

Joe wished he felt as confident as Frank sounded. One of the two bat-wielding boys came running at him, arm raised high. Joe bent over double, then charged. The bat whizzed over his head. Joe grabbed the boy's forearm with both hands and straightened up, then spun on his toes. The gang member's arm wrapped around his own neck. The bat fell from his numb fingers and made a clunking sound on the pavement.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe could see something move. He dropped to his knees and dove to his left. Dino's tire iron hissed past him and hit Callie's bumper with a loud clang.

Callie jumped out of the car and screamed, “Go away and leave us alone. I just called the police on my cell phone. They'll be here any minute.”

Dino blinked and looked over his shoulder at Callie. Joe pushed off as if from the line of scrimmage and hit him solidly, shoulder to mid
section. Dino went
whoof!
and fell backward to the ground. Joe met Callie's eye and grinned.

A pair of headlights swung across the parking lot and headed toward them. The car slid to a stop, and both front doors were flung open. Joe turned to face this new, unknown menace.

The first person out of the car was Marlon Masters. He shouted, “Gus, Dino, you guys, back off. The cops are on the way!”