Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The last man turned to reach for Frank, but Joe caught the man's arm and repeated his brother's trick.
"Run," Frank said, pushing through the crowd. Joe followed, laughing as he thought of the Russians caught among the dancers.
They reached the open street and ran. When they had run several blocks, cutting from street to street, they stopped to catch their breath. No one was following them. "We finally lost them," Frank said. "I figured they'd want to keep a low profile and not cause a scene around the locals. That gave us the edge we needed."
"We'd better not run into those guys again," Joe replied. "I think we're all out of edges. I can't wait to get my hands on Martin and find out what this is all about."
"You think he had something to do with it?"
"He vanishes, our chauffeur does a disappearing act, and suddenly there are goons crawling all over us," Joe said. "Hey, he was supposed to be with us today. Maybe they weren't after us — maybe they were looking for Martin."
"There's only one way to find out." Frank glanced around one last time but saw no sign of the Russians. "Let's get back to the hotel."
They entered the hotel through the back door and climbed the back stairs to the third floor. The walk back had been long and difficult.
"If you want to go to our room, I'll bring Martin around," Joe suggested. "We'll meet you there."
"Fine," Frank said. "He's got a lot of explaining to do." He left Joe and turned the corner, walking down the corridor to their room.
Frank stopped, ducking into a doorway. A policeman was standing in front of their doors. Frank slipped along the corridor, heading back to the stairs.
Joe was waiting, a look of dread on his face. "Frank," he said, "there's a cop in front of Martin's door, and a sign on it saying only police are allowed to enter. What's going on?"
"I don't know," Frank replied. "But we're in the thick of it. The cops are watching our room too." He started down the stairs. "Maybe we can find something out from the front desk."
"Looks like rush hour, doesn't it?" Joe said as they reached the main floor. Dozens of people, guests at the hotel, milled around the lobby. Scattered among them were policemen handing out photographs. Near the front desk were two pretty blondes. "Those are the girls who were on the elevator last night. Maybe they've heard something. Let's go ask — " He started moving toward them.
Frank pulled him back, around a pillar. "Let's not," Frank said. "Look who they're talking to." Joe peered around the pillar. The young women were speaking to a tall, burly man with dark hair. He wore a dark tailored suit and tie. He nodded, recording the girls' words in a small notebook. "Cop?" Joe asked Frank. "Plainclothes," Frank answered. "He's probably the one running the show here."
"Let's go talk to him, then," Joe said, and started around the pillar. The man with the notebook had closed it and turned to the desk clerk.
The man spoke to the clerk in a deep voice that cut through the din. "Hermanos." Joe heard the Spanish word for "brothers." He strained to catch more, and was lucky. The policeman spoke clearly and slowly. He was easy to understand. "They were seen with the man just before the time of death, and were heard making threats against him."
The anxious clerk spoke quickly, but Joe caught something about murder being bad for the hotel.
"It will be over soon," the dark-haired policeman said, "when I arrest Frank and Joseph Hardy for the murder of Martin Chase."
JOE DUCKED BACK behind the pillar. "Big trouble, Frank," he said. "We've got to get out of here."
Frank glanced over his shoulder at the back door, but it was no longer unguarded. A policeman stood there, checking the tourists who came in. "If we go, we go out the front," Frank muttered. He scanned the lobby. The other guests were chatting with one another, acting as if a party were going on. On the wall to the Hardys' left was a small newsstand. "Follow me," Frank said. "If we act naturally and don't attract any attention, we should be able to pull this off."
Casually, he strolled over to the kiosk, picked out a paper, and handed some coins to the vendor. Frank opened the paper, folding back a page and holding it up so that it blocked the lower half of his face. He turned to face the room.
No one noticed him. The policeman in the dark suit was speaking to the young blond women again. And next to them a uniformed policeman worked on a sketch. He's drawing us from their descriptions, Frank thought. The police will have pictures of us in no time.
Behind the cover of the paper Frank jerked his head to one side, signaling Joe to make his move. Then Frank began to walk, apparently aimlessly, toward the front door, flipping through his newspaper like a tourist looking for somewhere to go.
Frank walked through the front door and onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He tossed the newspaper into a trash basket. Where was Joe? he wondered. Had they finished the sketch and recognized him before he could escape?
No, there was Joe, coming out the door.
"Now what?" Joe asked, joining him in front of the hotel. "All our stuff is in our room, and we can't get to it. What are we going to do?"
Before Frank could answer, a cry of "Alto!" sounded behind them. They turned to see a uniformed policeman with a paper in hand. He spoke to them rapidly in Spanish.
He's got us, Frank thought. That must be our picture in his hand. As if hearing Frank's thoughts, the policeman thrust the paper into their faces and started asking more questions in Spanish.
The picture he held was a photograph of Martin.
"He wants to know if we know the man in the picture," Joe said, and then, to the policeman, 'Wo. Dispenseme. No comprendo."
The policeman nodded, shrugged his shoulders, then went back toward the hotel.
"Come on," Frank said. "Let's hit that cafe where we had breakfast. We can rest and sort things out there."
The Hardys entered the cafe and sat at a back table that was partially hidden by lush green plants. Seconds later a waiter appeared with menus. It was the same waiter who had served them at breakfast, and his lean face brightened when he recognized them.
"You are back," he said slowly in English. "I am Francisco. What may I bring you, my friends?"
"Dos Coca-Colas, porfavor," Joe answered. The waiter spun around and vanished into the kitchen.
"He sure is friendly," Joe said, grinning. "I must have tipped him better than I thought."
"Great." Frank rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Someone else who can recognize us." He looked around the room. Besides the door they had come in through, there was a door to the kitchen. Good, we can reach that easily if we have to, Frank thought. "Why are the cops looking for us anyway?"
Joe stared at his brother. "I thought you heard. They think we killed Martin."
"What?" Frank looked angry. "Where did they get that idea?"
"How should I know?" Joe said. "Maybe we should turn ourselves in. After all, we are innocent."
"I don't think so," Frank responded. "This whole thing is starting to smell like a setup. If someone fingered us for Martin's murder, who knows what evidence they've manufactured? We're not in America, Joe. I have a feeling we'd better be able to prove our innocence before we start talking to any police."
Francisco reappeared with the drinks. "Mind if we sit here a bit?" Frank asked. "We'll order some food in a little while."
"Si!" the waiter said, flashing his smile at them. "Stay as long as you like. Eat! Eat!" He wandered toward the front of the restaurant.
Sure that they were alone again, Joe sipped his drink and said, "You've got a point. We're probably better off on the streets." He chuckled. "Besides, we don't want to make it too easy for the Russians to find us, do we? You don't suppose they set us up?"
Frank shook his head. "There wasn't time. You know who I bet could give us a few answers? Our chauffeur. He's the one who gave us Martin's note. And he led us to the Russians. Maybe he's working for them—at least, his disappearance was awfully well-timed."
"You're right," Joe agreed. "But we don't even know what he looks like. I never got a good look at his face, and his face wasn't his real face anyway. He could be anyone."
"We can't even be sure he's a he," Frank said. "It could possibly have been a woman."
Joe's eyes widened. "You don't suppose that Spanish girl at the plaza ... "
"I doubt it," Frank said with a shrug. "Too slight. The chauffeur's height and build would be hard to fake. No, I'd guess he was a man. I wish he'd had a scar, some peculiar mannerism, something we could identify him with."
"We're not finding him unless he wants to be found," Joe said. "And we can't walk up to the Russians and ask them what's going on. I don't see any way we can help ourselves until we get a handle on the situation."
Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers and said excitedly, "There's one person who might be able to clue us in!" "Who?" Joe asked. "The girl?" A broad grin spread across Frank's face. "Martin."
"Martin? But he's — "
Frank waved a finger, cutting off his brother's thought. "Right. But the police have sealed off his room, so odds are everything he had is still in there."
"Of course!" Joe said. "If he left any information in his room — but how do we get in?"
"That's what we've got to figure out," Frank replied. "One thing's for sure. We'll have to wait until dark. Till then, we might as well eat." He picked up the menu and studied it, then raised his hand to flag the waiter to the table.
Despite the bright spotlights that lit up the front of the hotel at night, the rear of the place was dark, except for the parking-lot lights and ground lamps that marked the edges of walkways.
Frank and Joe slipped around to the back of the hotel, staying in the shadows. There were no signs of police in the parking lot, and guests were coming and going now as they pleased.
"I don't know if we should have spent so much time in that cafe," Joe whispered. "All that food is starting to weigh me down." A car sped by them, catching them in its headlights, and the boys turned their heads to hide their faces.
"We can make up for it by eating light for the rest of the trip," Frank answered. "Besides, if this doesn't work, we may not get another chance to eat at all. Did you leave a big tip?"
"Sure. Never know when we'll have to hide out there for a few hours again."
Following his brother, Joe crouched down and darted across the parking lot until he reached the safety of the darkness on the other side. Now they were at the bushes just in back of their hotel, and he looked up to the third floor, counting silently to himself. "There's our room," he said, pointing to a window on the third floor. "Four rooms in from the end."
Frank nodded. "That's good to know for when we have to get in there."
Joe walked to the corner of the building and turned up the side, counting carefully. Finally he stopped under two balconies, one above the other, and looked up. The top balcony was dark, and he could see no shadows on the shades drawn inside the room there. "Martin's."
Frank cupped his hands together and held them down at his knees, palms up. "Ready?" he asked Joe.
"Ready," Joe said. He broke into a sprint, heading straight for Frank. His last step landed in Frank's cupped hands, and Frank jerked upward, hurling Joe into the air. Joe stretched out his arms, and his fingers locked onto the balcony above him. Straining, he pulled himself up and over the railing and rolled with a thud onto the balcony.
Joe flattened himself on the balcony floor and reached down through the railing until Frank gripped his hand. "Hold on," Joe said. Slowly, he lifted his brother up. Finally, Frank grabbed the bottom of a rail and dragged himself onto the balcony.
"One down," Frank said breathlessly. "Care to try for another?"
"Why not?" Joe said, gathering his strength. Frank cupped his hands together again, and in seconds Joe had disappeared over the railing of the top balcony.
For a long minute Frank watched in vain for some sign of him. But there wasn't even a sound.
"Joe!" he whispered. "Are you all right?"
As if in answer, an arm extended down from the top balcony. Frank grabbed it and hung on as he was lifted.
"You know, you could have answered me," Frank complained as he came over the railing. "I thought something had hap — "
That's when he realized Joe wasn't alone. Two policemen were holding his arms. Standing in front of Frank was the man who had been interviewing the blond girls that afternoon.
"You are Frank Hardy?" the man asked in accented English. "I've been waiting to meet you. I am Police Inspector Melendez.
"You and your brother are under arrest."
"You CAN'T ARREST US," Joe said. "We haven't done anything."
Police Inspector Melendez clutched Frank's arm and shoved him inside the room beside Joe. "Sit down," he said. The Hardys sat on the bed. "Men who haven't done anything don't come creeping into dead men's rooms through the balcony in the middle of the night. Perhaps in America murder is considered nothing — "
"That's not what I meant," Joe interrupted.
"But in Spain we take it very seriously," Inspector Melendez continued as if Joe had said nothing. "What was your relationship with the dead man?"
"You mean Martin?" Frank said. "We met him only once, yesterday. He was supposed to be our guide around Malaga. I'd won this contest — "
Inspector Melendez cut him off. "Then what was your motive for killing him?"
"You're crazy if you think we did it," Joe said.
Inspector Melendez scowled. "I would be crazy to think you did not. You were the last persons to be seen with him before his death and the only persons ever seen with him in this hotel."
"What about the chauffeur?" Frank asked.
"Chauffeur?" Inspector Melendez repeated. He pulled out his notebook and leafed through it. "No one else has mentioned a chauffeur. Please describe him."
Frank swallowed hard. "We can't. He had disguised his face."
"I see." With a sigh of exasperation Inspector Melendez flipped the notebook closed and returned it to his pocket. "You were overheard to threaten Martin Chase in the elevator." "That was a joke," Joe said. "A figure of speech."