Hardy Boys - Case 02 - Evil Inc

VIP免费

2024-12-19 0 0 208.61KB 76 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Chapter 1

THE FRENCH POLICE officer kept his eyes on the two teenagers from the moment they

sat down, at the outdoor cafe across the street from the Pompidou Center in Paris.

Those two kids spelled trouble. The cop knew their type. Les punks was what the

French called them. Both of them had spiky hair; one had dyed his jet black, the other

bright green. They wore identical black T-shirts emblazoned with the words The Poison

Pens in brilliant yellow, doubtless some unpleasant rock group. Their battered, skintight

black trousers seemed ready to split at the seams. And their scuffed black leather combat

boots looked as if they had gone through a couple of wars. A gold earring gleamed on

one earlobe of each boy.

What were they waiting for? The cop wondered.

Somebody to mug? Somebody to sell drugs to? He was sure of one thing: the punks were

up to no good as they sat waiting and watchful at their table, nursing tiny cups of black

coffee. True, one of them looked very interested in any pretty girl who passed by. But

then a couple of girls stopped in front of the table, willing to be friendly, the second punk

said something sharp to the first, who shrugged a silent apology to the girls. The girls

shrugged back and went on their way, leaving the two punks to scan the passing crowd.

The cop wished he could hear their conversation and find out what language they

spoke. You couldn't tell kids' nationalities nowadays by their appearance. Teen styles

crossed all boundaries, he had decided.

If the cop had been able to hear the two boys, he would have known instantly where

they were from.

"Cool it. This is no time to play Casanova," one of them said.

Aw, come on," the other answere4. "So many girls-so little time."

Their voices were as American as apple pie, even if their appearances weren't. .

In fact, their voices were the only things about them that even their closest friends back

home would have recognized.

"Let's keep our minds on the job," Frank Hardy told his brother.

"Remember what they say about all work and no play," Joe Hardy answered. .

"And you remember that if we make one wrong move here in Paris," Frank said, "it'll

be our last."

Chapter 2

JUST TWO DAYS earlier, Frank Hardy's hair had still been brown, Joe Hardy's had still

been blond, and they had still been in America.

They had not, however, been at home in Bayport. They were in lower Manhattan,

shopping for a computer circuit board. More specifically, Frank was shopping for it. Joe

had come along with him just to look around the city after a month of riding his

motorcycle or hitting the beach every day, and going through his black book of girls’

telephone numbers for a steady succession of dates.

For Frank, eighteen and a year older than Joe, the summer, meant catching up on his

reading, doing serious weight and "martial-arts training, and dating his girlfriend, Callie

Shaw. Then one

day a messenger had arrived at their home with a package, and Frank had scheduled a trip

to New York City.

The package came from the ultrasecret government agency known as the Network.

With it came a message from the Hardys' contact with the Network-the man they knew

only as the Gray Man.

The Gray Man's message was short and not very sweet. "This is the computer modem I

mentioned to you. But remember, don't call me, I'll call you."

The Hardys had first met the Gray Man at the memorial services for the only girl that

Joe Hardy had ever truly loved, Iola Morton, the victim of a terrorist bomb. Frank and

.Joe were leaving the chapel when the Gray Man appeared, a small, balding man in a gray

suit, with grayish hair and gray eyes, and even skin with a gray pallor. He was a man who

faded effortlessly into any background and disappeared in any crowd.

The Gray Man was interested in. Iola's death but not nearly as interested as Joe, who

was burning with anger and ravenous for revenge. The common goal of catching the

killers was enough to put the Hardys and the Gray Man on the same team. In fact, it was

probably the only thing that could have done so. During the Dead on Target case, the

Gray Man had made no secret of the fact that he considered the Hardys a couple

of teenage amateurs, while Frank and Joe found the Network pros both too cautious and

too headstrong-and accustomed to a brand of violence the Hardys disliked intensely.

Still, working together, they bad come out on top against a heavyweight terrorist hit

squad, which had made the Gray Man decided reluctantly to hook up Frank's computer to

the Network's communication system in case the Gray Man ever found another use for

the Hardys.

The Hardys accepted the offer of continued contact with the Network because of Joe's

hunger for further action against the kind of killers who had taken Iola from him, and

because of Frank's deep desire to see deserving bad guys brought to justice. To them, it

was worth enduring even as dull and unpredictable a character as the Gray Man if it

meant getting a crack at terror in any of its evil forms.

When Frank opened the package from the Network, his instant reaction had been,

“Typical. They sent me the modem, but not the interface I need to hook it up to my

computer. And to think those guys are watching over national security. Our country's

survival has to be due to pure dumb luck."

“Think you 'should break the news to the Gray Man and have him send the interface?”

asked Joe.

"How?' replied Frank.”This modem is the only way we can contact him."

"Well," said Joe, "we'll just have to get one ourselves."

They had taken the train to the city, after telling their father they'd decided on a mini-

vacation in New York. They didn't mention the Gray Man's gift. Fenton Hardy was a

retired New York cop who had become a renowned private detective. Frank didn't want

to stir up those detective instincts, so he said that he and Joe were taking a couple of days

as a final fling before summer ended.

So far, though, it hadn't been much of a fling. Frank had been hitting electronics

shops since ten in the morning, with no luck. It was twelve thirty now, and he couldn't

argue when Joe announced, "Let's take a break. I'm starved."

Frank grinned. "And I know the reason why." "Why?" said Joe.

"Because if we walk just a little farther north, we'll be within striking distance of Katz's

Delicatessen," replied Frank.

"Amazing, Holmes," said Joe.

"It's elementary, my dear Watson." Frank sniffed the air. "I can practically smell the

corned beef.”

Katz's Delicatessen was a huge cafeteria-style restaurant founded in the days when

New York's Lower East Side had been peopled by Jewish immigrants. It had survived

and continued to flourish when more recent immigrants from Puerto Rico arrived. And it

stayed filled with

Hearty eaters and the delicious scents of food as new faces and new generations”,

discovered the restaurant and neighborhood.

"I wonder if we'll run into the Gray "Man here," said Frank as they approached Katz's.

The Gray Man had introduced the Hardy boys to the "restaurant, taking them there" as a

modest expression of his less-than-overwhelming gratitude for their help in foiling the

terrorist plot He told them during the meal that Katz's was one of his favorite places to

meet his agents. He claimed it was the perfect cover for a secret rendezvous. Frank and

Joe suspected, though, that Katz's great corned beef sandwiches had something to do with

the Gray Man fondness for the place.

"I hope we do run into him'," said Joe. "Maybe he'd put our meal on his expense

account. My stomach tells me that we're going to run up quite a bill. Although an inch

shorter than Frank, who was six-feet-one, Joe was broader and slightly huskier than his

older brother, and his appetite was sizable.

Suddenly Frank stopped short, in front of the entrance to an alleyway.

"Hey, do you see what I see?" Joe followed his .gaze. "It's him!" he exclaimed. "I don't

believe it!"

"Let's go!" cried Frank, dashing into the alley.

Joe was right behind him.

The Gray Man was in the alley, but he wasn't alone.

Two big bruisers with their hair cut into pink Mohawks and wearing black leather

motorcycle jackets had backed the Gray Man against a brick wall, next to an overflowing

garbage can. They were slapping his face to the rhythm of hard rock from a huge boom

box resting on the litter-covered ground. One would slap him from the right, then the

other would come in from the left, sending the Gray Man's head bobbing like a punching

bag. From the look on the thugs' faces, they were having fun.

Their fun ended abruptly. They never knew what hit them.

The Hardys' running footsteps were masked by the blasting music. Vicious chops

to the backs of the thugs' necks sent them pitching forward on their faces.

Joe looked down at the thugs at his feet, then turned to Frank. "I've got to admit, you

were right to persuade me to take a few karate lessons.

That teacher of yours showed me exactly where to hit somebody to put him out like

alight."

By now the Gray Man had recovered enough to say, "Frank? Joe? What are you doing

here?"

"Saving your neck, as usual," said Joe.

"Maybe you should make us your body guards," added Frank. "You sure seem to need

some kind of protection."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to go down dark alleyways with pink haired

punks in leather jackets?" asked Joe.

The Gray Man looked slightly embarrassed. "I didn't expect this."

"I bet you didn't," said Joe.

"But I do owe you some thanks, I suppose," the Gray Man said grudgingly. .

"I think some corned beef sandwiches, french fries, and cream sodas would do nicely,"

said Joe, his stomach already growling in pleasant anticipation."

"Plus, of course, an explanation," added Frank, who couldn't stand the thought of any

unsolved mysteries.

"The food is easy," said the Gray Man, "though I hope you'll restrain your appetite a

bit. The last meal I treated you to put me over budget."

"And the explanation?" said Frank.

"It's best to keep you out of this affair," replied the Gray Man. "It's big-time, not for

kids."

Joe felt’s temper rising. "Just like it would have been best for us to keep out of this

alley, right?"

"Let's not argue about it," said the Gray Man firmly. "I'll buy you a meal, and that will

be that”

He started to stride decisively out of the alley when Frank said, "Hey, what about these

two I guys here? We'll have to call the police to haul f them away." The Gray Man

cleared his throat. "Let's not

bother. I really don't think it's necessary to involve the police."

Frank's eyes narrowed, then a grin appeared on his face. "But as good citizens, we

have to notify the police-unless, of course, you give us a full explanation of why we

shouldn't."

The Gray Man opened his mouth to argue. Then he saw the anger on Joe's face and the

determination on Frank's, and he said, "Okay, okay. I guess I can trust you. I have to trust

you. I'll give you your explanation."

"Over corned beef sandwiches," Joe added.

Twenty minutes later, the Hardy boys were listening with their mouths full and their

ears wide open as the Gray Man explained. "I was using those two thugs as part of an

operation. Among other unpleasant things, they're street level gun merchants who call

themselves the Jackson brothers. I was pretending to be a big buyer-too big for their

league. I wanted them to lead me to whoever could fill that kind of order. The plan was

working perfectly, until today. They'd had a few too many drinks and decided to rob me

of the bankroll I flashed them as a sign of good faith. That's one of the problems with

dealing with criminals-they're so unreliable."

"Yeah," said Joe, reaching for a dill pickle.

"It's so hard to find good help nowadays, especially when you need an honest crook."

"So you're still in the dark about who the big arms dealer is?" asked Frank, getting

back to the subject at hand. When Frank scented a mystery, his bloodhound instincts

came to life right away.

"Actually, we have a pretty good idea," said the Gray Man. "There's a French firm that

calls itself Reynard and Company. Its president is a distinguished Frenchman named Paul

Reynard, and the company is supposed to be in the import export trade. But we suspect

that its real business is selling goods and services to every kind of crook around-drug

smugglers, bank robbers, terrorists, you name it."

Joe swallowed hard. "Terrorists?" he repeated.

"They're Reynard's biggest customers for guns, bombs, phony passports, even

professional killers," said the Gray Man. "Reynard and Company will supply anything for

a price. Or at least we think they will. We still need hard evidence. That was what this

operation was so important.

Those two punks were supposed to lead, me to Reynard's representative in this

country. After I'd made a few buys, I could start dealing directly with Reynard and get

enough on the company to shut it down and lock up the people in charge."

"What about the French police?" said Frank. "I mean, it's their territory."

"They've been notably unsuccessful," answered the Gray Man, a touch of scorn in his

voice. "Of course, eventually we would have to inform them of what we found so they

could do the actual mopping up: But they simply lack the Network's expertise in handling

undercover work like this, not to mention the possibility that Reynard may have

infiltrated them."

"And now your operation's off?" asked Joe.

"We're back to square zero," said the Gray Man, shaking his head. "And we were so

close. Those punks actually boasted that they had set up a meet with Reynard's man, a

fellow named Dupree, at the Hotel Pierre at eight tonight. Then they laughed and said

they'd rather party all night with the money they were going to lift off me."

Frank looked at his brother hard. He could see that Joe had something on his mind.

Something big enough to make him leave the rest of his second sandwich untouched.

"So Reynard will be able to keep supplying terrorists," Joe said, and then Frank knew

what he was thinking. Joe was remembering Iola.

"For the moment, Reynard has slipped out of our grasp," the Gray Man admitted.

"Look, why don't you use -us?" Joe asked abruptly.

"You?" said the Gray Man.

"Frank and I can pretend to be the gun buyers. We can go to the meet and start getting

the goods on Reynard."

The Gray Man chuckled. "You've been read

ing too many superhero comic books, young man. You'd better leave matters like this to

professionals. "

"Yeah, professionals like you," said Joe. "You did a great job out in that alley."

The Gray Man flushed. "I think we've talked about this matter enough. I gave you the

explanation I promised. Let that be the end of this. If I ever need your services, or you

ever have any information that the Network should know, we'll be in touch via that

modem I sent you."

"I'm looking for an interface to make it work," Frank said pointedly.

"Yeah, your professionals forgot to include one," added Joe.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be able to find the part," said the Gray Man. "You young people

are relatively competent in dealing with computers. And there's no need for the modem

right now, anyway."

The Gray Man got to his feet, ready to leave. But before he could go, Joe said, "Look,

just in case, do you have a number where we can reach you? You never know what we

might stumble on. Frank and I get around."

Frank looked at his brother sharply. Joe's tone was mild, as if he had forgotten his

disagreement with the Gray Man. It wasn't like Joe to forget something like that or to

give up so fast.

The Gray Man saw nothing strange in Joe's acceptance of his authority, though. He

simply

said, "There's a temporary number you can use-five-five-five-one-one-one-one-while I'm

still in the city. I'll be here for another two weeks. After that I'll be back at headquarters."

"Right," said Joe, committing the number to memory. "And thanks for trusting us with

it."

"You kids may be a bit impulsive, but I think you're trustworthy enough," said the

Gray Man. "Just don't start thinking you can do things that are better left to older, trained

professionals."

The Gray Man turned and walked away. As he was paying the cashier, Joe turned to

his brother and said, "Come on. We've got a couple of days. We could do it."

"I hate to admit it," said Frank, "but the odds against us being able to pull off a stunt

like you suggested are just too high. If I worked it out on my computer, it would probably

come out to be about a million to one." He took a last bite of his sandwich and said,

"Speaking of computers, let's get back to our hunt."

Joe shook his head. "Look, Frank, I'm tired of going through all those high-tech

treasure houses. I want to check out some sports stores. Let's separate and meet in an

hour and a half at Houston Street and Broadway."

"Good enough," said Frank, as he and Joe got to their feet. "See you there."

But an hour and a half later, Frank didn't see his brother.

What he saw was a weird-looking kid with

bright green spiky hair, an earring, and black punk clothes.

"No," said Frank, shuddering.

"Yes," said Joe. "I found a great barber and a clothes store right next door. You can get fixed

up in half an hour."

"No way," said Frank. "I told you before, it's a crazy scheme, no matter how mad you are at

terrorists.”

"I'm not getting mad, I'm getting even," replied Joe, his face hard with determination. "If you

don't want to go along, then I'll do it alone."

Before Frank could stop him, he turned and headed down the street.

"You'll get yourself killed!" Frank yelled after him.

Joe kept walking.

"All right," Frank shouted. "We'll both get ourselves killed."

Chapter 3

"I DON'T BELIEVE it," said Frank.

He was looking in a mirror, and a stranger was looking back at him. The stranger's hair

was jet black and spiky, and he wore black pants, combat boots, an earring, and a black

T-shirt stenciled with the words The Poison Pens.

"Believe me, you look great!" Joe exclaimed. "This is totally crazy."

"Come on, don't try to kid me," said Joe. "I knew you couldn't resist a caper like this. I

could see that eager gleam in your eyes as soon as the Gray Man told us about this

Reynard gang."

"I didn't want to wind up being an only child, that's all," said Frank. "No way am I

going to get stuck with all the chores around the house. And no way could you have

pulled off this masquerade by yourself. It demands a cool head, not a 17

hothead. I can just see you taking a punch at this Reynard guy if he so much as mentions

a terrorist bomb."

"Save the lectures for later," said Joe. "Let's pay for your new wardrobe and get

going."

After paying for Frank's clothes, they left the secondhand clothing store with their

regular clothes in plastic shopping bags. They took a subway uptown to Grand Central

Station, where they put the shopping bags in coin-operated lockers.

"We still have a few hours to kill before the meet," said Frank, looking at his watch.

"I know just how to do it," said Joe. "Follow me."

He led Frank out onto Forty-Second Street and westward to the Times Square area

until they reached a large, dingy movie house. The movie playing there was titled Punk

Peril!

"We can take a crash audiovisual course in our new roles," said Joe. "Besides, I hear it's a

pretty good flick."

When they left the movie theater an hour and a half later, Frank gave his verdict on the

film. "The absolute pits."

"Aw, it wasn't so ' said Joe. "The big fight scene with the heavy-metal music getting

louder and louder was kind of interesting. "

"Don't hold your breath when Academy Award time rolls around," said Frank. He

looked at his watch again. "But now it's time for us to do

our own acting job, and I've got a hunch we're facing some tough critics. If they pan us,

the show is going to be over fast. "

They took a taxi to the Hotel Pierre.

"We're here to see Mr. Dupree," Frank told the desk clerk.

If the clerk found anything unusual in their appearance, he didn't show it. It was a point

of honor among New Yorkers not to raise an eyebrow over anything short of somebody

strolling naked down Fifth Avenue, and maybe not even then.

"Mr. Dupree is expecting you," the clerk replied. "You're to go to his room. It's number

seventeen-oh-five. "

Frank and Joe rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor and walked down the

elegant corridor until they reached room 1705.

"Eight o'clock on the nose," said Joe, looking at his watch. "Zero hour."

"Here goes nothing," said Frank, knocking on the door.

The door was opened by a large man-a very large man. He was at least six-feet-five

and weighed about three hundred pounds.

His pig like eyes looked the Hardys up and down. Then he motioned them inside. The

moment they stepped through the doorway, he shut the door and turned the lock. The

next moment, an ugly Beretta pistol was in his hand.

"Please excuse Simon for not saying hello,"

said a voice from the doorway of another room in the hotel suite. The voice belonged to a

lean, tanned, handsome man of about thirty, wearing an elegantly cut white suit and a

black shirt. He spoke fluent English with a slight French accent. "Sad to say, Simon lost

the power of speech early in life. He has since learned to make actions speak far louder

than words. I suggest you do not start any kind of argument with him."

"It's nice to get such a warm welcome," said Joe sarcastically.

"It's going to be hard to do business if there isn't some mutual trust involved," added

Frank gruffly.

"There will be plenty of trust as soon as I see your money," said the man who must

have been Mr. Dupree.

"Oh, sure, the money," said Joe.

"Right, the money," said Frank.

"You do have it, don't you?" asked Dupree, all politeness fading from his voice leaving a

core of icy suspicion exposed. "I made it quite clear on the phone. I want to see a hundred

and fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills as a sign of good faith before we go any

further."

Frank gulped and then grinned. "You've got to be kidding."

"Kidding?" said the man venomously. "Simon will show you how much I am kidding."

But before Dupree could make a motion to

Simon, Frank said, "You really thought we'd bring all that loot to meet with a stranger?

We're not a couple of amateurs. We want some sign of your good faith."

Dupree considered the matter. Then he nodded. "I concede your point. You will not

have to have the, money delivered until just before we board the plane at JFK."

"Sounds good to me," said Joe. He and Frank exchanged quick glances. Clearly, there

was a lot that the two punks had not told the Gray Man, probably because they never

intended to go through with the deal.

"Have your people deliver it to you in front of the Air France terminal in one hour,"

said Dupree. "Then we will proceed to Paris to have you checked out. I hope for your

sakes that you can produce the money. If you can't-" Dupree finished the sentence with a

slashing gesture across his throat.

"Sure we can," said Joe. "We'll go get it now." Dupree smiled. "Do you really think I

would let you out of my sight now that you have seen me? What kind of fool do you take

me for?"

Joe smiled back weakly. "Just testing."

"Yeah," said Frank, producing a sick smile of his own. "We'll make a phone call and

set it up."

With a swagger he did not feel, Frank went to the phone and punched out the number

that the

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

Chapter1THEFRENCHPOLICEofficerkepthiseyesonthetwoteenagersfromthemomenttheysatdown,attheoutdoorcafeacrossthestreetfromthePompidouCenterinParis.Thosetwokidsspelledtrouble.Thecopknewtheirtype.LespunkswaswhattheFrenchcalledthem.Bothofthemhadspikyhair;onehaddyedhisjetblack,theotherbrightgreen.Theyworeid...

展开>> 收起<<

Hardy Boys - Case 02 - Evil Inc.pdf

共76页,预览16页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Hardy Boys - Case 02 - Evil Inc

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: