Fast Life and Tragic Death of Angus McCoy! And we've got the whole thing on videotape! The publisher will love it. Pictures of the famous racing driver's last moments! It'll sell millions!"
The writer laughed again, but both Frank and Joe could see the laughter was forced and bitter. Martin turned back toward the ocean and was silent for a while. Finally he said, "Does that answer your question?"
"Actually, that wasn't the question I wanted to ask," Frank said apologetically. "Something just doesn't make any sense to me. McCoy knew the layout of the course, right?"
"Sure. He'd driven it several times to get familiar with it," Martin said.
"And he didn't really have any serious competition in this race, right?"
"Right."
"So why would he push so hard? And why did he drive as though he didn't know the turn was there?"
"The answer to the first question is easy." Martin smiled. "Race drivers always push hard. They're not just racing against other drivers and the clock—they're competing against themselves.
"Angus was getting a little old for the game," Martin went on. "There were guys who said he was all washed up, so he had something to prove. As for your second question," the writer continued after a brief pause, "I don't have an answer. Angus was a much better driver than on that last turn. And it's not like this is the only course with a hairpin turn."
He shrugged. "Angus was a world champion. I don't understand it, either. This is the kind Of mistake a newcomer would make."
"What about sabotage?" Frank ventured.
The question surprised both Martin and Joe. "Who would have a motive?" Joe cut in.
"Somebody who wants to win," Frank replied simply.
At that moment Russell Arno joined them at the cliff's edge. He kicked at a small rock, and Joe watched it roll and bounce down the steep incline. He barely made out the tiny splash it made when it hit the water below.
Arno turned to him and casually said, "Well, now that McCoy is out of it, it looks like your friend Scott Lavin is the new favorite."
Chapter 3
The next day was one of those late-summer days when the sun felt somehow cooler, even though the temperature was as hot as mid-July.
Joe Hardy was sitting on his front porch, thinking that even the shadows cast by the sun were different at this time of year. Softer. Maybe the morning seemed special because he knew summer was almost over. But Joe was sure he could recognize this kind of day even if he were set down in the middle of it, without anyone telling him what season it was.
Joe had been up for a while. The day before had been long, but he had slept well. Joe rarely had trouble sleeping. There wasn't any problem that wasn't easier to tackle after a good night's sleep, he thought.
Frank Hardy emerged from the house about one o'clock, stretching and yawning. "You look like you could use a couple more hours of sack time," Joe remarked.
"I was up most of the night doing some work on the computer," Frank explained. The Hardys had a sophisticated computer setup, complete with a telephone modem to access other computers, and they often used it to help solve cases. If information was available over a phone link-up, Frank knew how to get at it.
"It took quite a while," Frank went on, "but I found out some interesting things. About Scott Lavin," he added.
"Oh?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. "Let's hear it."
"Building and racing Formula One cars is very expensive," Frank began. "It takes a lot of money—and that means sponsors and investors. Scott got started with seed money from a few investors, but that money is almost gone now. He's been looking for sponsors — advertisers who will pay him to promote their products. But Scott doesn't have enough of a reputation on the Grand Prix circuit yet. He needs a big win to get that rep.
"Go on." Joe fought to keep his voice cool. Scott Lavin was his friend, and he didn't like where this conversation was leading.
"Look, Joe, I know how you feel about Scott," Frank
The writer laughed again, but both Frank and Joe could see the laughter was forced and bitter. Martin turned back toward the ocean and was silent for a while. Finally he said, "Does that answer your question?"
"Actually, that wasn't the question I wanted to ask," Frank said apologetically. "Something just doesn't make any sense to me. McCoy knew the layout of the course, right?"
"Sure. He'd driven it several times to get familiar with it," Martin said.
"And he didn't really have any serious competition in this race, right?"
"Right."
"So why would he push so hard? And why did he drive as though he didn't know the turn was there?"
"The answer to the first question is easy." Martin smiled. "Race drivers always push hard. They're not just racing against other drivers and the clock—they're competing against themselves.
"Angus was getting a little old for the game," Martin went on. "There were guys who said he was all washed up, so he had something to prove. As for your second question," the writer continued after a brief pause, "I don't have an answer. Angus was a much better driver than on that last turn. And it's not like this is the only course with a hairpin turn."
He shrugged. "Angus was a world champion. I don't understand it, either. This is the kind Of mistake a newcomer would make."
"What about sabotage?" Frank ventured.
The question surprised both Martin and Joe. "Who would have a motive?" Joe cut in.
"Somebody who wants to win," Frank replied simply.
At that moment Russell Arno joined them at the cliff's edge. He kicked at a small rock, and Joe watched it roll and bounce down the steep incline. He barely made out the tiny splash it made when it hit the water below.
Arno turned to him and casually said, "Well, now that McCoy is out of it, it looks like your friend Scott Lavin is the new favorite."
Chapter 3
The next day was one of those late-summer days when the sun felt somehow cooler, even though the temperature was as hot as mid-July.
Joe Hardy was sitting on his front porch, thinking that even the shadows cast by the sun were different at this time of year. Softer. Maybe the morning seemed special because he knew summer was almost over. But Joe was sure he could recognize this kind of day even if he were set down in the middle of it, without anyone telling him what season it was.
Joe had been up for a while. The day before had been long, but he had slept well. Joe rarely had trouble sleeping. There wasn't any problem that wasn't easier to tackle after a good night's sleep, he thought.
Frank Hardy emerged from the house about one o'clock, stretching and yawning. "You look like you could use a couple more hours of sack time," Joe remarked.
"I was up most of the night doing some work on the computer," Frank explained. The Hardys had a sophisticated computer setup, complete with a telephone modem to access other computers, and they often used it to help solve cases. If information was available over a phone link-up, Frank knew how to get at it.
"It took quite a while," Frank went on, "but I found out some interesting things. About Scott Lavin," he added.
"Oh?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. "Let's hear it."
"Building and racing Formula One cars is very expensive," Frank began. "It takes a lot of money—and that means sponsors and investors. Scott got started with seed money from a few investors, but that money is almost gone now. He's been looking for sponsors — advertisers who will pay him to promote their products. But Scott doesn't have enough of a reputation on the Grand Prix circuit yet. He needs a big win to get that rep.
"Go on." Joe fought to keep his voice cool. Scott Lavin was his friend, and he didn't like where this conversation was leading.
"Look, Joe, I know how you feel about Scott," Frank
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