Infinity Clue Part 2

The boys started to look for clues in the makes.h.i.+ft cla.s.sroom, hoping to get some idea who the men were and what they were up to.

"Hold it right there!" a voice suddenly shouted from behind them. Standing in the door frame, a white-haired old man held a shovel threateningly in his hands.

"It's him again!" Chet cried.

Still wary from the a.s.sault on Fritz's car less than a half hour earlier, the boys made ready to defend themselves against the white-haired man. But he didn't advance on the sleuths, he just stood guard at the door, holding the shovel like a baseball bat.

"What are you kids snoopin' around here for?" he demanded sternly.

"What are you trying to prove by threatening us with that shovel?" Joe responded with a question of his own.

"I'm planning to bring you three thieving little hoodlums to justice!" the man growled. "Now, you can either give yourselves up or we can wait like this until help comes."

"Thieving little hoodlums?" Chet cried indignantly.

"Wait a minute," Frank said, then addressed the old man. "You think we're here to burglarize the museum?"

"Of course. What else would you be doing down here?" the man sneered.

"Why did you smash our car winds.h.i.+eld at the demonstration?" Joe took over the questioning.

"Smashed winds.h.i.+eld? Demonstration? What in the world are you talking about? I've been here in the museum, doing my job."

"This isn't the same guy," Frank told his brother. "There was something strange about that other one."

"You work here?" Joe asked the white-haired man.

"That's right. I'm the custodial engineer," he replied proudly. Then his expression changed. "Wait a minute, I'm the one who's asking the questions. If you kids ain't thieves, then you won't mind going to Mr.

Boswell's office and explaining your business to him."

"Who's Mr. Boswell?" asked Frank.

"Museum curator," the old man replied as he stepped back into the hallway, inviting the boys out of the room.

With the custodial engineer behind them, the trio marched to the curator's office.

David Boswell was a serious but kindly looking man about their father's age. His face broke into a grin when he realized he was speaking to the sons of Fenton Hardy. "Your dad worked on a case for the Smithsonian years ago when you were toddlers. Fine man, he is."

Frank told Mr. Boswell that in fact they were following up a lead for their father.

"Well, to be honest, I'm tickled to have Fenton's sons here on a case. You'll have to forgive Jason,"

Boswell added, referring to the janitor. "I've given everyone working in the museum special instructions to be on guard against intruders. You see, we've been rearranging some things, including our mineral exhibit.

That's why the museum is closed for the week. There are some very valuable stones in that display, and we don't want to take any risks, especially since the security alarm system has been temporarily disconnected. So I hope you'll understand why we're a little touchy about strangers prowling around."

Frank and Joe apologized for entering the museum without permission, but explained that under the circ.u.mstances they had no choice.

"I'll try to help you any way I can," Boswell replied, easing back into his cus.h.i.+oned desk chair.

Frank informed the curator of their father's cryptic message to be at the Smithsonian that day at eleven-thirty and to find someone with the initials "H. W." He also asked about the men the young detectives had seen driving from the museum.

"I can't help you on your father's note," Boswell said, knitting his brow. "There was nothing scheduled for eleven-thirty as far as I know, and the initials H. W. don't ring any bells. But I can tell you that those men were a team of geologists who use that meeting room from time to time. Their activities are supported by the museum, and it's all on the level. But if you want to know more, I can refer you to the head of the geology department."

Boswell jotted a name and office number on a slip of paper and handed it to Joe. "Ask for Professor Simmons."

The three boys found Professor Simmons's office in a far wing of the museum, but the geologist was out for a late lunch. He would be back about three.

"Now that's a good idea," Chet said. "Let's find ourselves a good place to eat."

On the way out, the boys left Joe's film at the museum's photo lab to be developed, then they strolled into the Was.h.i.+ngton Mall grounds. At one end stood the United States Capitol, and far down at the opposite end was the Lincoln Memorial, which they had pa.s.sed earlier. The Was.h.i.+ngton Monument rose in the center, and large government and Smithsonian Inst.i.tution buildings lined the Mall on either side.

Thousands of tourists filled the area with activity.

After wandering for a while, the boys bought hot dogs and sodas from a sidewalk vendor, then sat outside the Lincoln Memorial and dangled their feet in the Reflecting Pool, a shallow, man-made lake.

"I hope the amba.s.sador hears from Dad soon," Joe said, swis.h.i.+ng his feet in the cool water. "I'd like to know he's okay."

"It would also give us a chance to warn him about the phone call we received," Frank added. He finished his hot dog and washed it down with one last gulp of soda. "Right now I want to hear what Professor Simmons has to say about those geologists."

A blue Frisbee sailed through the air in the direction of the sleuths. Chet, seeing that it would land in the water if he didn't catch it, got quickly to his feet.

"Watch this!" he shouted.

Just as the blue Frisbee pa.s.sed over their heads, Chet leaped into the air as high as he could, which was only a few inches. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the floating disc but it sailed past them, landing out in the lake.

Kaboom! A tunnel of water shot up as the Frisbee exploded, drenching not only the three youths but several startled tourists who were walking by.

Frank and Joe looked in the direction from where the Frisbee had come. They saw a figure dart from behind some bushes and run across the Mall toward the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument.

"That's him!" Joe exclaimed, seeing the bomb thrower's white hair in the sunlight as he sped into the crowd.

CHAPTER IV.

Rent-A-Terrorist Frank and Joe, both stars in track and field at Bayport High, took up the pursuit. Dodging tourists as if they were part of an obstacle course, the two Hardys kept the culprit in sight. But he was too fast and the boys knew he would soon be able to elude them in the crowd.

"Keep after him," Frank panted, running next to his brother. "I'll see if I can cut him off on the far side of the Monument. It's our only chance."

Joe quickened his pace, bearing off to the left in the hope it would force the a.s.sailant to veer to the right, around the Monument. Frank also stepped up his pursuit. He had learned in track to conserve energy for a final burst of speed at the end of a race. Now he sprinted up the hill, thinking of the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument as the finish line.

At first, the plan seemed to work. The bomb thrower had arched up the hill toward the Monument where the two sleuths planned to converge. But when Frank and Joe reached the spot, the man was gone!

Exhausted, the brothers returned to the Reflecting Pool, where they found Chet wading knee-deep in the water. He had collected several pieces of blue plastic, all that remained of the Frisbee.

"You guys couldn't catch that old man?" Chet kidded as he handed over the fragments to Frank and Joe for inspection.

"We lost him in the crowd," Joe admitted.

"Hey," Frank said, examining one of the pieces, "did you notice this?"

Chet nodded. "Sure, someone drew a number eight on it, whatever that means."

"Look again." Frank turned the bomb fragment on its side.

Joe snapped his fingers. "It's the sign for infinity! This must have been what Dad was trying to warn us about!"

The symbol for infinity, oo, looked exactly like the number eight lying on its side. The boys remembered the sign from physics cla.s.s.

"Boy, I wish we had nabbed that guy," Joe said in frustration. "That was no firecracker he heaved at us."

"And we thought it was Fritz he was after." Chet groaned.

The threesome returned to the museum and found Professor Simmons back from lunch. He was a cordial man with thick gla.s.ses, a bow tie, and buck teeth, which he showed the trio in a broad grin.

Joe went right to the point, questioning him about the team of geologists they had seen leaving the museum.

"They're doing research on the earth's crust. Why do you want to know?"

"It may be relevant to a case we're working on," Frank explained. "At this point we just want to find out something about them-who they are, what they're up to."

"Let's see," the professor said, as he folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "They came from Europe not long ago to undertake various expeditions along the Eastern Seaboard. From what I understand, they plan to research configurations in the earth's mantle, which requires that they drill a series of core samples, as well as take soundings. The team uses the museum as a kind of home base for their research. They were here this morning to pick up some equipment. You must have seen Dr. Werner on his way out."

"Dr. Werner?" Joe inquired.

"Dr. Werner heads the team. He's a well-known and respected man in his field."

"Do you know Dr. Werner's first name?" Frank asked.

"My, my, these questions are getting stranger by the minute. His first name is Ha.s.so, Dr. Ha.s.so Werner.

Why? Have you heard of him?"

Frank and Joe exchanged quick glances. Ha.s.so Werner could well be the "H. W." they were looking for!

"It's possible we have heard of him," Frank told the museum geologist. "How can we get in touch with Dr. Werner?"

Simmons threw up his hands. "I don't have any idea. Although we try to support his research as much as we can, we don't keep tabs on his whereabouts. I expect they were on their way to a new expedition site, although I couldn't tell you where it is. I'll be happy-to call you when Dr. Werner returns, but that probably won't be for at least another week."

"I'm not sure we have that much time," Frank said in a low tone. "But I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know as soon as you hear from him."

Frank gave Simmons the German amba.s.sador's phone number and told him they would be there for several days.

Chet had been waiting anxiously for the meeting to be over, and when it was, he took the opportunity to ask a few questions of his own.

"Do you know anything about that earthquake near Bayport?"

Simmons shrugged. "That was certainly unexpected. My only guess so far is that there may have been a weakness in the mantle that had gone undetected. Although there hasn't been any seismic activity in that area, it is possible for geological forces within the earth to build up to a sudden and unexpected rupture of the crust."

"I thought earthquakes were caused by known faults in the land," said Chet, having heard about the San Andreas fault in California.

"Most of them are," said the professor. "That's why I'm so puzzled by this one. In fact, I'm eager to get Dr. Werner's report. He's an expert on such things, and his research may give us some insight into this matter." He smiled and extended his hand to the boys. "I guess we each have our own mysteries to solve.

Good luck on yours."

The three visitors thanked the professor, then headed for the photo lab, where they had left Joe's film.

"You're just in time," the operator announced as he emerged from the darkroom with wet sheets of photographic paper. He laid the prints on a table and the young sleuths gathered around.

"I got him!" Joe said, pointing to a figure caught in the act of charging. "But the color looks bad. His face is all washed out, and his eyes are . . . pinkish."

"Did you use a flash on the camera?" the darkroom operator asked Joe. "That often causes a reddish reflection off the eyes."

"No, I didn't," Joe replied, knitting his brow. Suddenly, he realized why the man's appearance seemed so strange. "There's nothing wrong with this picture," he said. "This is an albino."

Frank snapped his fingers. "That's right. It explains why he was able to run so fast. He's not an old man at all."

"You mean he really looks like that?" Chet challenged the two sleuths.

"An albino," Frank explained, "has no natural pigmentation, so his hair is white as snow. The blood vessels under his skin and in his eyes give him his only color-pink."

Chet studied the photograph for a few seconds. "Boy, he sure is a mean-looking guy."

Frank grinned. "I don't think being an albino makes you mean. But at least he'll be easy to identify if we see him again." He then checked his watch. "Fritz ought to be out front to pick us up."

"Great, I'm about ready for some of that gourmet cuisine you guys promised me," Chet said, patting his oversized tummy.

Frank and Joe looked at each other, neither one wanting to tell Chet what they had in mind for him.

"Actually, we were hoping you could, do us a favor," Frank finally said. He watched his friend's expression drop to one of gloomy expectation.

"What kind of favor?" Chet asked.

"We need you for a stakeout here in the museum tonight," Joe said.

"You expect me to sit all by myself in this dark place while you two go off to the amba.s.sador's for a big gourmet feast? Do you take me for a fool? This is your case, not mine."

Chet folded his arms and acted like the subject was closed. But secretly he was eager to help. This could be his big chance to show off his sleuthing talents.

"Look, Chet," Frank began, "Dad's message told us to be at the Smithsonian, but it didn't say whether it meant eleven-thirty in the morning or at night. We just a.s.sumed it was during the day. But now I suspect the action may be tonight, and we'd like you to keep a lookout."

"Why choose me?" Chet asked.