High-Speed Showdown Read Free

powerboat racing?”
    â€œGuess not,” Carl Newcastle said, with a little shrug. He didn’t sound very convinced. “Sorry.”
    â€œWell, I’m not sorry,” Barry called from the foot of the steps. “I don’t need you to teach me how to act, Gerald. What this sport really needs is more colorful personalities that attract the public, not more fuddy-duddy rules. As for you, Newcastle, I’ll settle with you on the water, on Saturday.”
    Barry turned to go, but not before he gave Joe a dirty look.
    â€œCongratulations, brother. You really know how to win new friends,” Frank murmured.
    Before Joe could think of a comeback, the man in the blue blazer said, “Am I right in thinking that you two are Fenton Hardy’s boys? I’m Gerald Magnusson.”
    Frank and Joe introduced themselves and shook hands with Magnusson. Then he led them indoors. As they followed him, Joe told Frank, “That turkey who tried to deck me? That must be Barry Batten. He won the national offshore title last year.”
    â€œOh, right,” Frank replied. “I remember seeing an interview with him on TV. He said he owed all his victories to his lucky medallion. It’s a piece of whale ivory that was carved by some ancestor of his who was captain of a whaling ship.”
    Magnusson took them to a small room off the lobby that was set up as an office.
    â€œThank you for coming by,” he said, after they all sat down. “I apologize for the greeting you just got. I’m afraid everyone’s nerves are on edge.”
    â€œWhy’s that, sir?” Frank asked.
    Magnusson stroked his mustache with one forefinger. “It’s hard to explain,” he said slowly. “In the last two days, since the racers have started arriving in Bayport, there have been several, ah, incidents. Nothing terribly startling, really—equipment breaking down when it shouldn’t, that sort of thing. But the rumor has spread that someone is out to wreck the meet. I wanted your father—and since he’s not available, of course, you—to find out if there’s any truth to the rumor.”
    â€œI see,” Frank said.
    â€œI’ve been part of the offshore racing scene for many years,” Magnusson continued. “But this is the first time I’ve had responsibility for a major meet. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
    â€œWe understand,” Joe told him. “But what kind of incidents are you talking about?”
    Magnusson frowned. “Well, for one thing . . . tell me what you think of this.”
    He took a sheet of paper from his desktop and handed it to the Hardys. Joe peered over Frank’s shoulder and caught his breath. It looked like the leaflet they had seen Connie distributing earlier, but with an important difference. At the bottom, the words Polluters Die were scrawled under a crude skull and crossbones.
    â€œHow did you get this?” Frank asked.
    â€œIt arrived by fax about an hour ago,”Magnusson told him. “Somebody’s idea of a joke, obviously.”
    â€œNot a very funny one,” Joe pointed out. “Especially if somebody ends up getting hurt.”
    Magnusson stood up and crossed to the window. With his back to them, he said, “You agree that I should take it seriously, then.”
    â€œI think we should take it seriously,” Frank said. “Listen, sir, what do you think of this? We’ll look into it, very quietly. If it does turn out to be a bad joke, fine. And if not, we’ll have a better idea of what you’re facing and what to do about it. Do you have a photocopier here? I’d like a copy of this.”
    â€œWhy, yes,” Magnusson said, sounding surprised. He took the leaflet and stepped outside. A few moments later, he returned with a photocopy and gave it to Frank.
    â€œI’d rather people don’t know you’ve been hired to investigate,”