Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Thick as Thieves (9 page)
FRANK PEELED OFF his shirt, holding it over his nose and mouth. Chavo ordered the others to stay down, breathing the air that remained under the thickening cloud. But Frank knew the dense gas would eventually force all the air out of the building. He had to reach the keys.
He got on his stomach again and stretched for the keys. Three inches, he thought. If only his arm would stretch three more inches!
He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. The gas stung his nostrils, choking him. He flattened against the floor, trying to stay beneath the cloud.
Something hit against his leg. Frank patted the floor with his hand, but there was nothing under his leg. He reached into his pocket.
There, forgotten, was the knife he had taken from Jolly on the barge.
Quickly he flicked the knife blade and stretched out again. The tip of the knife touched the edge of the key ring. He pulled it toward him. The knife blade slipped away. He tried again, slipping the blade under the ring this time. Slowly, so slowly Frank felt as if he wasn't moving at all, he lifted the knife, catching the ring.
The key ring slid down the length of the knife until it was in Frank's hand.
He pressed his face to the floor as far as he could, took one last breath, and stood up. As long as I don't breathe in, Frank thought, it won't get me. The thing that worried him was how long he would be able to hold his breath.
Frank worked the keys in the lock until the jail door swung open. He could see nothing but the white cloud. His ears and eyes stung as he staggered to the canister, but he held his breath as he tried to close the valve.
Willeford had broken it.
He lifted the canister, and the effort made him exhale, then inhale, without meaning to. Gas rushed into his lungs, and he felt himself weakening. With a loud cry, he lunged forward, into the front office, and smashed the canister through a window.
The bars stopped the canister, bouncing it back into Frank's arms, but the window shattered. The rush of cool air cleared his head. Frank opened the front door to let in more air.
Standing outside on the steps was one of the men who had been with Willeford in the jail. Like Willeford, he now wore a gas mask. The gun he held was aimed at Frank.
Frank swung the canister like a baseball bat. It slammed into the side of the man's head, knocking him flat. Frank let go of the canister and fell to his knees next to the gunman, ripping at the thug's mask.
In seconds Frank had it on his own face. Then he rushed back into the deadly cloud in the jailhouse and, one by one, dragged the others to safety.
He sat on the ground in front of the police station, catching his breath as the others recovered. Finally he had the energy to remove the gas mask. He decided not to let it out of his sight. It might come in handy, now that the Director's scheme was in motion. Chavo entered a heated conversation in Spanish with the police chief, and when it was over he grabbed Frank by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
"The first thing Willeford did was smash the chief's radio," Chavo said. "We have one other chance." He jerked his head in the direction of the main hotel. "Brendan Buchanan, who owns the big casino on the island, has a two-way radio in his office."
Frank flashed Chavo a cocky grin. "Then we'd better get there before someone destroys that one too."
They moved stealthily and kept low. Frank noticed activity down by the docks. They crept closer for a better look, staying in the shadows.
The fishing barge was in, and the Director's gang was marching away from it. Each of them carried a large bag, and each wore a gas mask. The seven men marched toward the hotel.
"Seven?" Frank whispered to Chavo. "Where did they get a seventh from? There were only six on the boat."
"Don't forget the one who closed the hatch." Chavo watched grimly as the men blocked their path to the hotel. "We are beaten. There are too many of them, and we cannot get past them without them seeing us."
"Stay here," Frank said. "I've got an idea."
He slipped on the gas mask to conceal his identity and ran up to the line of criminals, trying not to make any noise. Without a sound, he slipped an arm around the neck of the last man in line, dragging him back. The man struggled, but the mask muffled his cry.
Chavo jumped up, ripped the man's gas mask off, and knocked him out. He slipped the mask on as Frank took the man's belt off and bound him with it.
"Perfect," Frank said, eyeing the masked Chavo. "You look like a master criminal again."
***
The hotel was filled with a bright pink gas that wafted in streams around Frank and Chavo as they entered. Elegantly dressed people littered the hotel lobby and stairs, an eerie stillness clutching their fallen bodies. Men in gas masks moved, taking watches, jewelry, and wallets from them and dropping the items in their bags.
They're breathing, Frank realized, relieved that here, at least, the thieves had not used poison gas.
They started up the stairs, and for a moment Chavo paused, looking back. Frank saw his eyes narrow. "What's the matter?"
"The seventh man from the dock," Chavo said. "The one we couldn't identify. I thought I saw him in the corner of my eye. I was mistaken."
They continued up. More bodies were on the stairs, lying where they'd fallen when the gas hit. From above them came the cry, "It's about time you got here. Let's go. The top floor hasn't been touched."
It was Everest. For a moment Frank froze, sure they'd been spotted. Then he remembered the masks. Everest couldn't see who they were.
Chavo nodded, and Everest vanished back up the stairs.
"Let's go," Frank said. "According to the guide we passed on our way in, the manager's office is on the top floor."
They stopped on a balcony and looked at the activity below. The balcony opened out over a large casino, and masked figures scurried from table to table, robbing the gamblers and looting the money on the tables. For the first time, Frank fully understood just how big this crime really was.
He and Chavo continued up the stairs. Here and there men in gas masks popped in and out of hotel rooms. "There are more here than I recruited," Chavo said. "The Director must have had other scouts over here already in place."
"For a job like this, I can understand that," Frank replied. They reached the top of the stairs. On this floor there were no guest rooms, only offices. Frank went from door to door, until he found a plaque that read Manager.
"Here it is," he called to Chavo.
Gingerly he turned the knob. The unlocked door swung open.
The room was dark, and they dared not turn on a light. Wisps of pink gas hung in the air, but it smelled sweeter than the air downstairs. Against the back window, which overlooked the harbor, was an antique desk.
A man sprawled with his face on the desk. Frank raised the man's hand, and it dropped back to the desk without pause. "Unconscious," Frank said. "I assume this is the manager."
"Never mind him," Chavo said. "Find the radio." He pulled books off the shelves and knocked open file drawers.
There was no sign of a radio.
"It's got to be here somewhere," Chavo insisted. He scratched his head. "Maybe it's one of those new miniaturized jobs. He could have it in his desk."
Frank stepped behind the desk and gently moved the unconscious manager to one side. He pulled open the desk drawers and rifled through them. Only papers. Exasperated, he slammed the top drawer shut.
His knuckle brushed against a button underneath the lip of the desktop. Curious, he pressed it.
A bookcase swung away from the wall, revealing a small room inside.
"The radio!" Chavo exclaimed, and rushed into the room. In seconds he was working the controls of the shortwave, repeating into the microphone, "Mayday! Mayday! Please acknowledge."
Frank stepped in, studying the hidden room. Why would a hotel manager install one? he wondered. He pressed his hand against the smooth white wall, and it gave way. As he heard Chavo speaking to the mainland police, he said, "I think we have a problem."
Behind the second wall was a small television studio.
"You do have a problem," the hotel manager agreed. He stood outside the door, very much awake, a pistol in his hand. "Yes," he said in answer to the shocked looks on their faces, "I am the hotel manager and owner."
Frank studied the man's face. There was something strangely familiar about him, though Frank was certain he hadn't seen him before. Under the man's nose, almost invisible, were nose filters. That, Frank realized, was how the manager had kept himself safe from the gas.
The manager gave them a tight smile. "Of course, you may call me the Director."
WEARING HIS GAS MASK, Joe Hardy strolled through the casino. He had walked off the barge with the others, but since then had not joined them in their activities. He only watched as the criminals stripped Puerto de Oro of its wealth. Across the casino, at the roulette tables, two men were cleaning out the cash.
One crook picked up a diamond necklace and held it up to the light, checking its quality. The thief wiped the lenses on his gas mask with a sleeve, and when he still couldn't see well enough, he slipped the mask off and held the diamonds to the light again.
A satisfied smile crossed the man's lips. On the other side of the room, Joe's blood began to boil.
The man with the diamonds was Cat Willeford.
A thick hand clapped down on Joe's shoulder, startling him. He was at the point when he wanted to hit someone who deserved hitting, and his first thought was to spin around and start swinging. He held himself back. Like the others, this guy's face was masked, but Joe couldn't mistake the voice or the shape.
"You'd better do your share, Kid," Jolly said. "We wouldn't want you to miss out on your cut of the take, now, would we?"
"Someone would have to turn me in," Joe replied. "You wouldn't do that."
Jolly sighed. "I might hate to, that's true. But if the money was right ... "
"What do we do with all this stuff once we get it?"
"Didn't they tell you, Kid? There's a central collection point, a truck out in the town square. We take everything there."
"And?" Joe asked.
"I don't get you."
"How do we get paid? And how's a truck going to help us? This is an island."
"You worry too much," Jolly replied. "The Director wouldn't be dumb enough to run out on us. There are enough guys here who'd be glad to track him to the ends of the earth to make him pay.
"On the other hand ..." Jolly rubbed the back of his neck, still thinking about Joe's question. "That point about the truck is well-taken. I hope nothing is wrong. I get most unpleasant when someone betrays me."
"Sorry to hear about that," Joe said. Whipping around, he swung up, knocking the gas mask from Jolly's face. His fist landed in the heavyset man's stomach, and Jolly sucked in a lungful of pink gas.
"Kid," Jolly said softly, sadness in his voice. He opened his mouth again, as if to shout, and then dropped to the floor. The gas had taken effect.
Joe glanced around the room. No one had noticed his scene with Jolly. He stashed Jolly under a blackjack table, then picked up the bag of loot Jolly had been carrying. The heavyset man had been right about one thing. Joe would be a lot less conspicuous if he were carrying a bag.
He wanted to stay inconspicuous — he had a lot of scores to settle, starting with Cat Willeford.
A big bag tossed over his shoulder, Willeford left the casino and headed into the dining room next door. Joe followed. None of the others paid any attention to them. And if they found Jolly lying there? Would they raise the alarm?
No, Joe decided. They'd probably rob him of any valuables he had left.
Willeford was in the kitchen when Joe caught up with him. Joe called his name, and the rat-eyed man looked up.
"I've been looking forward to this," Joe said.
"Who are you?" asked Willeford.
Joe lifted his gas mask for a moment, and Willeford smiled. "Kid, you've got almost as many lives as I do."
"The name's not Kid. It's Joe Hardy. You should never have tried to kill me." Joe clenched his fists and took a step toward Willeford. "You're out of lives now, Cat."
Willeford ran. He and Joe left their bags sitting in the kitchen, and Joe chased him into the main hallway. Other criminals watched them as they ran, and Joe could hear them laughing. He knew none of them would lift a hand to help Willeford. They were too interested in their loot.
Joe stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the hallway. Two masked figures were starting up the stairs, and one of them turned his face just enough for Joe to recognize the eyes. He'd never forget those eyes.
That was Chavo, the guy who'd killed his brother. Joe started after Chavo.
Willeford took advantage of Joe's shift of attention, catching Joe under the chin with his forearm. The blow knocked Joe off his feet and sent him crashing on his back on the floor. Willeford dropped down like a piledriver, smashing both fists into Joe's chest.
Joe tried to shake off the haze that was swallowing him. Somewhere he was dimly aware that Willeford was clawing at his face, trying to slip his mask off. Struggling to keep the mask on, Joe tried to stand. Willeford went for a new hold, wrapping an arm around Joe's head while Joe was still bent over.
Joe stood suddenly, locking one hand under Willeford's shoulder and the other in the man's belt. He kicked backward, and Willeford was in the air as Joe tucked himself into a roll. They both crashed to the floor on their backs.
Willeford hit first, and he hit hard. While the crook thrashed around, trying to pull himself together, Joe punched him again. Willeford stopped moving and lay still.
Joe turned his eyes to the stairs. Now it was Chavo's turn.
***
"You're robbing your own resort?" Frank said in disbelief.
"Certain financial setbacks make it necessary," the Director said. "Everything was planned, except for the interference from you and your brother."
As the Director spoke to Frank, Chavo inched toward him. The Director calmly turned and pointed the gun at Chavo's heart. "Uh - uh," he said. "Please don't interrupt."
Frank and Chavo stood back as the Director continued.
"Take Mr. Chavo here, a Federale operating undercover as a criminal. He was the perfect tool. I could use him to recruit the people I needed and set up the operation. And he fell right in line, eager to arrest large numbers of crooks in the commission of a crime."
"You knew about Chavo all along?" Frank asked.
"My boy, he's the most important part of my plan. When the Mexican authorities raid this island and capture the army of criminals I've assembled, I won't have to pay any of them. I, and the millions of dollars collected here tonight, will simply disappear."
"That's why you relayed everything through radio or television," Frank said, "and why you appeared fully masked. Why would anyone associate a hotel manager with the mastermind who robbed the place? You're in the clear."
"Except for us," Chavo said tensely. "We know who you are."
The Director picked up a shoebox, pressed a button on it, and slid it across the floor of the secret room. "I was coming to that. The final part of my plan is for my office to be bombed. It's the perfect way to cover my tracks. Of course, it would appear to all as if I'd been killed in the blast — "
"Of course," Frank said.
"Now it seems your bodies will be found in the wreckage. The thief who planted the bomb," — the Director gestured to Frank, then to Chavo — "and the brave policeman who tried to stop him. How tragic."
The Director checked his watch. "Five minutes. I really must be going." He stepped back, and the secret door began to close.
Frank leapt for the Director, but he was too slow. The man swung his gun, cracking Frank on the skull. He fell back, unconscious, but Chavo moved, knocking the Director back before he could pull the trigger. They tumbled together out of the radio room, and the pistol slipped from the Director's grip, skittering across the floor. When they stopped rolling, Chavo was on top of the Director, pinning his arms down.
"It's all over," Chavo said.
But another masked figure appeared from nowhere and slammed the back of Chavo's head. He slumped weakly to the floor. The Director scrambled to his feet, racing out the door as Chavo, clutching his head, looked up.
Joe Hardy stood over him, ready for business. "You killed my brother, you slime."
Beneath the gas mask, Chavo's eyes widened at the sound of Joe's voice. He tried to get to his feet, but Joe held him down. Then Joe grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, knocking the gas mask from Chavo's face.
Joe planted a punch on Chavo's jaw, and Chavo staggered back but remained on his feet.
"Your brother's alive."
Joe could barely hear Chavo's voice.
"What?" Joe said. He couldn't believe his ears. "You're just saying that to save your skin."
"No. Please. You must listen if you want to save him." Chavo half-raised a hand and pointed to the secret room. "Behind that wall—I was just with him." He took a faltering step forward, dread written all over his face. "He's in there with a bomb."
He's lying, Joe told himself. But there was a look of true panic on Chavo's face, and Joe knew he couldn't pass up even the slightest chance that Frank still lived. He lunged for the secret door.
It was too late. The wall disintegrated from the force of the blast.
He flew back into darkness, hoping against hope that Chavo had been lying about Frank.
