The Mark of the Blue Tattoo (9 page)

“He's doing a pretty good business for this time of the morning,” Frank remarked, during one of these stops. “I'm surprised there are so many people who want to buy an ice cream before lunch.”

“They wouldn't send the trucks out if it didn't pay,” Joe pointed out. “What surprises me is the route Gus has been taking. Did you notice that he drove right past that playground back there?”

“Uh-huh,” Frank said. “And then he parked outside an off-track betting office for a good
fifteen minutes. Still, I guess he must know his job. Did you see the way those guys started getting in line even before the truck stopped?”

“Getting their sugar fix before the first race,” Joe said. As he did, he glanced in the car's rearview mirror and made a disgusted noise. “Unbelievable! That guy McCay is on our tail again. Do you want me to try ditching him?”

Frank scratched his head. “Why bother?” he said. “We're not doing anything we don't want him to see. Sooner or later, he'll get bored and go home.”

Sure enough, the next time Joe checked his mirror, he no longer saw the red car. “Gone,” he said to Frank.

“Maybe he's smarter than I thought,” Frank replied, checking his watch. “It's nearly time to meet Chet. We can pick up Gus's trail again after lunch.”

Chet's ice-cream truck was already parked outside the luncheonette when the Hardys arrived. They found him in a booth at the far end of the restaurant. He had a club sandwich, fries, and a large soda spread out in front of him.

“Hey,” Chet said. “I went ahead and ordered. Us working guys don't get unlimited lunch time, you know.”

Joe and Frank slid into the seat opposite Chet. When the waiter came over, they both ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and colas.

Frank looked over at Chet and said, “You look worn out. How's it going?”

“Not so hot,” Chet admitted. “I'm getting hassled by the Starz members who work at Freddy Frost. You know—making dumb jokes among themselves, bumping into me, sticking out a foot when I walk by carrying a big load of cartons.”

“What about your supervisor?” Joe asked. “Hasn't he noticed what they're up to?”

“Sal? Sure, he must have,” Chet said. “But he isn't exactly friendly to me, either. I don't know why. We got along fine my first day. And you know, he's not on top of his job. This morning when I got to my first stop, the box in the front of the freezer was empty. Not only that, it was Cherri Cola flavor. That's not even on the menu.”

“No wonder,” Joe remarked. “It sounds too much like cough syrup.”

Chet laughed. “I know. And the really funny thing is that three different people asked me for it this morning. They weren't very happy when I told them I was out of it.”

Chet paused, and his face became serious. “I tell you, this job is not turning out the way I thought it would. If things don't get better fast, I'm going to bail out.”

Frank twisted his straw in his fingers. Having someone on the inside at Freddy Frost was important to their investigation. If Chet quit now, they
might never find out what the Starz were up to. On the other hand, did he and Joe have the right to ask Chet to stay in a situation that seemed to be turning dangerous? He didn't think so.

The grilled cheese sandwiches arrived. Frank took a bite while he debated with himself. At last he decided that it wasn't really his decision to make. Clearing his throat, he told Chet what he'd been thinking.

Chet's face darkened. “Listen, Frank,” he said. “I appreciate your concern. But I'm a big boy now. I can make up my own mind. If you think it'll help for me to stay on the job, I will. At least through the weekend. And if I do decide to quit, I'll let you know before I do it. Okay?”

Relieved, Frank said, “Okay.”

“And by the way,” Chet added, with a mischievous grin. “That's a very drippy cheese sandwich you're holding. It's been oozing down your wrist onto your shirt cuff.”

Frank glanced down at his hand. Chet was right. “I'll be right back,” he muttered. He slipped out of the booth and went off in search of the washroom. He found it at the back of the luncheonette, just past an alcove that held a pay phone.

After washing his hands, Frank started to open the washroom door. He heard someone say, “Joe and Frank Hardy. That's right—the private eye's two brats.”

Frank froze with the door open a couple of inches. Stealthily, he put his eye to the crack. Aaron McCay was standing barely two feet away in the telephone alcove, the receiver to his ear. Luckily, his back was to Frank.

With infinite care, Frank eased the door until it was almost closed. Then he concentrated on listening to McCay's conversation.

“I don't care about that,” McCay continued. “Too bad, but we don't have any choice. We've got to eliminate the Hardys and their friends—once and for all. In fact, consider it done.”

Joe looked up as Frank returned to the booth. “What's with you?” he asked, alarmed. “You look as if you've just seen a ghost.”

“This case must be a lot bigger than we thought,” Frank replied in a low voice. He slid into his seat. “You're not going to believe what I just heard.”

Joe and Chet listened, wide-eyed, as Frank recounted McCay's seeming eagerness to get rid of them.

“So that's why he's been following us,” Joe said when Frank finished. “He's setting us up for a hit!”

“Listen, guys,” Chet said. “I don't mind mixing it up with a bunch of high-school flunkies like
the Starz. But taking on professional gangsters and even murderers is something else. Especially if my sister may end up as one of their targets.”

“What now?” Joe asked, turning to Frank.

Frank counted out enough money to cover lunch for him and his brother and put it on the table. “We take him on now,” he said. “While he's still just one guy. After that phone call, I noticed that he went back to his seat at the counter. Get ready to leave. The minute he stands up, we follow him outside.”

“Bad move,” Joe said. “If he's following us, he'll sit there until
we
leave. Besides, for all we know, his friends are on their way here right this minute.”

“So what do we do?” Chet demanded.

“How's this for a plan?” Joe said. “We get up now and pretend we're leaving. Lure him outside. Then, as soon as we're out the door, Chet keeps walking toward the parking lot while we hide and wait for him to go by. What do you say?”

“I like it,” Frank said. “Chet?”

Chet's answer was to put down the money for his sandwich, fries, and soda, plus an extra dollar tip.

“Let's move,” Joe said.

The three stood up and walked toward the exit.
With each step, the sense of tension mounted. Joe found it hard not to look down the counter to the stool where he figured McCay would be sitting. Would he get up to come after them? And what would he do when they confronted him? The answers to those questions were only seconds away, Joe thought, taking a deep breath.

Chet was the first through the doorway. As Joe held the door open, he saw that there were chest-height bushes on either side of the walk. He looked over at Frank and motioned toward them with his head. Frank gave him a quick nod of agreement.

Frank was next through the doorway. The instant he stepped outside, he ducked out of sight behind the bush on the left of the entrance. Joe took the bush on the right and crouched down behind it.

The wait seemed to last forever. Joe began to wonder if his plan was a bust, but the door opened at last. McCay bustled out and stopped on the sidewalk to look in both directions. He seemed nervous.

Joe dashed over and grabbed McCay's right arm, at the pressure point right above the elbow. He gave it just enough of a squeeze to show that he meant business. Frank, meanwhile, had his arm looped through McCay's left arm.

“Time for a casual stroll and a friendly talk,” Frank said in a low voice. “That way.”

“What are you doing?” McCay demanded. His voice shook. “You boys are making a mistake—a big mistake.”

“The mistake isn't ours,” Joe told him, guiding him toward the parking lot where Chet was waiting. “It's yours. We don't like it when someone threatens us and our friends.”

“Threatens you? Me? That's crazy!” McCay said, his voice rising.

“I couldn't help but overhear your phone call,” Frank said. “I heard you tell your friends you were going to have to eliminate us.”

McCay heaved a theatrical sigh. “Oh,
that!”
he said. “I can explain that.”

“You'd better,” Joe said. “And it had better be good.”

“Um—would you mind not squeezing my arm that way?” McCay said, looking at Joe from under his bushy eyebrows. “I'm really very ticklish there.”

Joe let up the pressure, but kept his hand in place, ready to tighten it if McCay showed the least sign of trying to get away.

“Everything I told you before is true,” McCay said. “I'm a freelance writer, and I'm researching a piece on local teens. But what I didn't say is that the focus of the article isn't on hobbies and
sports. It's on the recent rise in teen gang activity.”

He paused and looked from Frank to Chet to Joe. He seemed to be begging for them to believe him.

“Go on,” Frank said. “Get to the part about eliminating us and our friends.”

“Bad choice of words,” McCay said with a weak smile. “A source told me that you fellows were the leaders of a small but influential gang.”

“Who'd be crazy enough to say something like that?” Chet asked. “The Hardys fight crime—they don't commit crime.”

“It wouldn't be ethical for me to reveal the identity of a confidential source,” McCay told him. “Anyway, when I found out about your detective work, I thought it might be a front to disguise your gang activities. But the more I dug up, the less likely that seemed. So I told my editor that we were going to have to eliminate you and your friends from the article.”

Joe looked over at Frank and saw that their thoughts were running along similar lines. McCay's explanation made sense. It was at least as likely as the idea that he was planning to wipe them out. And they had already discovered that he was known as a writer. Joe released McCay's arm and stepped back.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” McCay said, rubbing his elbow. “Now that our cards are
on the table, I think we can help each other out. It's pretty clear that you're investigating the Starz.”

“Why do you say that?” Frank asked.

McCay snorted. “Come, come now. I know it,
they
know it. Don't tell me that you yourselves haven't noticed.”

“What if we are investigating them?” Joe asked.

“Then I suggest we trade information,” McCay said. “I'm sure I have a lot that you don't, but you just might have some facts
I
need. What do you say?”

“We'll think about it,” Frank told him.

“You do that,” McCay replied. “Do you still have my card? If I'm not in, leave a message for me and I'll get back to you.”

Frank took out a slip of paper and scribbled on it. “You can reach us at one of these numbers,” he said.

McCay's face brightened. He tucked the paper in his shirt pocket and said, “Thanks, fellows. You made the right decision.”

As McCay walked toward his car, Chet said, “So, there's no hit squad after us? Good. I'd better get back to work. Oh, listen—Iola's a little upset with you guys. She feels left out of the investigation.”

“Sorry about that,” Joe said. “We'll take care of it.”

Chet returned to his truck and drove away while Joe and Frank retrieved their car. Frank looked over the sheet outlining Gus's assigned route. “He should be somewhere along Archer Avenue,” he reported.

“Roger,” Joe replied, pulling into traffic.

Ten minutes later Joe spotted the Freddy Frost truck pulling up to the curb next to a school playground. He stopped half a block away.

Frank chuckled. “It's really something to see how the peewees drop everything when they hear the ice-cream truck coming. Look at that little guy with the soccer ball. I'll bet he couldn't run any faster if he found himself with an open shot at the goal in the last minute of a tied game!”

Joe turned to watch the boy Frank was talking about. He looked to be about eight or nine, with shaggy hair and ears that stuck out. His sweatshirt was muddy and torn at one elbow. He was clutching a dollar bill in his right hand. And Frank was right—he was running as if he had Olympic gold in front of him and a vicious dog on his heels.

The boy stopped short and stared straight ahead. His shoulders slumped. He stuck the dollar bill in his jeans pocket and walked back the way he had come.

“What—” Frank exclaimed. “Gus is driving off!”

Frank was right. The Freddy Frost truck was already at the end of the block. Near the spot where it had been parked, a small crowd of kids milled around. A few of them had ice creams in their hands, but most didn't.

“Pull up there, Joe,” Frank said. “There's something here that doesn't make sense.”

Joe drove to the middle of the block and parked. He and Frank got out and approached one of the older boys in the crowd.

“Hey, what happened to the ice-cream truck?” Frank asked. “I wanted to get a fudge cone.”

The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That dope drove away before we could get over here,” he said. “He always does that.”

“Yeah,” a smaller boy said. “You gotta be standing right here when he comes, or forget it!”

Joe raised his voice. “How many of you were waiting to buy an ice cream when the truck left?”

About a dozen hands went up.

“Tell you what,” Frank said. “When we get home, I'm going to call the Freddy Frost company and tell them what's been going on. You guys have as much right to buy an ice cream as anybody, right?”