ordinary. "I don't get it," Frank said, leaning against the strange bell tower on the bluff. His eyes bored out toward the harbor in the distance. "If they caught us once, why couldn't they catch us again?"
"Dumb luck?" Joe suggested, sitting on the grass to rest his feet. Shauna sat beside him.
"I don't like to credit things to luck," Frank said. "It's not logical, rational, or—I don't believe this!"
He stepped back against the cement of the bell tower, keeping out of someone's sight. "Joe," he said calmly, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice, "look who's here."
Easily—with no fast movements to catch anyone's attention—Joe rose to his feet. He turned as if he were talking to Shauna, then glanced over to where Frank was looking.
He couldn't believe his eyes. There, walking down a path in the park with the sun very low in the sky behind him, was their old pal, the guy in the turban. Now he was leaving the path and heading down a grassy slope to a side street.
From their position on top of the bluff, the Hardys and Shauna could see his course clearly.
"What do you think?" Joe said. "He didn't act like he saw us. He didn't act like he was looking for us. Maybe he's doing just what it looks like — maybe he's just cutting across the park."
"Or maybe," Frank said, "he's setting us up again. I'd hate to get locked up in a room with another bomb."
"I say we follow him." Joe started along the path, hands in his pockets, as if he were taking a stroll.
Mr. Mustache never looked back as the side street became a flight of stairs, leading down to the waterfront area.
"I wonder what he wants down by the dock?" Shauna said.
That end of the harbor didn't have the bustling energy they'd seen on piers on the rest of the waterfront. Railroad tracks, a warehouse or two, and what looked like a sheet-metal shop made up most of the landscape.
The building their quarry headed for was definitely a rundown warehouse. It took the three a little while to get close. The area was fiat pavement, like a gigantic parking lot. They couldn't risk being seen by the turbaned man— even if he wasn't looking back.
Using what cover they could, they finally made it to the building. The door stood wide open.
"Shauna," Frank whispered, "you stay here as lookout. Give us a whistle if anyone comes along."
She nodded, taking a position by the corner of the building.
Frank and Joe stole inside. Dead ahead of them, across the vast room, were wide-open loading bays. No one was around. To their right were storage bays, with a hodgepodge of smallish boxes, bales, and crates.
"So, can you tell me if the ship has finally been unloaded?" The voice came from a glassed-in office in the left corner of the floor. The Hardys didn't have to worry about being spotted — nobody had washed the glass in years.
Frank frowned. The voice had a trace of an accent. But he couldn't quite place it.
Joe and he darted for shelter behind some boxes when they heard the office door rattle.
"I knew it was important to you, Mr. Singh." A man in a stained jacket came out of the room, followed by the turbaned guy. "That's why I kept an eye out for it. Came in just this afternoon, so I kept it out special. You were lucky I decided to work late tonight."
The man stopped in the middle of the room to pat a long, bulky packing case. "See? She's right here. Pity you didn't bring your truck."
"Can I use your phone? I'll call for the truck."
"Fine, and then we'll go over the shipping papers."
Frank and Joe stayed low in the shadows as the two men headed back to the office.
As soon as the door was closed, they sneaked over to the crate. A shipping manifest was taped to the rough wood, along with a bill of lading.
Frank quickly scanned over entries like factor, port of embarkation, transshipment point, until — "Here it is — consignee. That's the person who's supposed to receive it."
He read the name typed beside the form entry. "Forte Brothers, Inc."
He raised an
"Dumb luck?" Joe suggested, sitting on the grass to rest his feet. Shauna sat beside him.
"I don't like to credit things to luck," Frank said. "It's not logical, rational, or—I don't believe this!"
He stepped back against the cement of the bell tower, keeping out of someone's sight. "Joe," he said calmly, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice, "look who's here."
Easily—with no fast movements to catch anyone's attention—Joe rose to his feet. He turned as if he were talking to Shauna, then glanced over to where Frank was looking.
He couldn't believe his eyes. There, walking down a path in the park with the sun very low in the sky behind him, was their old pal, the guy in the turban. Now he was leaving the path and heading down a grassy slope to a side street.
From their position on top of the bluff, the Hardys and Shauna could see his course clearly.
"What do you think?" Joe said. "He didn't act like he saw us. He didn't act like he was looking for us. Maybe he's doing just what it looks like — maybe he's just cutting across the park."
"Or maybe," Frank said, "he's setting us up again. I'd hate to get locked up in a room with another bomb."
"I say we follow him." Joe started along the path, hands in his pockets, as if he were taking a stroll.
Mr. Mustache never looked back as the side street became a flight of stairs, leading down to the waterfront area.
"I wonder what he wants down by the dock?" Shauna said.
That end of the harbor didn't have the bustling energy they'd seen on piers on the rest of the waterfront. Railroad tracks, a warehouse or two, and what looked like a sheet-metal shop made up most of the landscape.
The building their quarry headed for was definitely a rundown warehouse. It took the three a little while to get close. The area was fiat pavement, like a gigantic parking lot. They couldn't risk being seen by the turbaned man— even if he wasn't looking back.
Using what cover they could, they finally made it to the building. The door stood wide open.
"Shauna," Frank whispered, "you stay here as lookout. Give us a whistle if anyone comes along."
She nodded, taking a position by the corner of the building.
Frank and Joe stole inside. Dead ahead of them, across the vast room, were wide-open loading bays. No one was around. To their right were storage bays, with a hodgepodge of smallish boxes, bales, and crates.
"So, can you tell me if the ship has finally been unloaded?" The voice came from a glassed-in office in the left corner of the floor. The Hardys didn't have to worry about being spotted — nobody had washed the glass in years.
Frank frowned. The voice had a trace of an accent. But he couldn't quite place it.
Joe and he darted for shelter behind some boxes when they heard the office door rattle.
"I knew it was important to you, Mr. Singh." A man in a stained jacket came out of the room, followed by the turbaned guy. "That's why I kept an eye out for it. Came in just this afternoon, so I kept it out special. You were lucky I decided to work late tonight."
The man stopped in the middle of the room to pat a long, bulky packing case. "See? She's right here. Pity you didn't bring your truck."
"Can I use your phone? I'll call for the truck."
"Fine, and then we'll go over the shipping papers."
Frank and Joe stayed low in the shadows as the two men headed back to the office.
As soon as the door was closed, they sneaked over to the crate. A shipping manifest was taped to the rough wood, along with a bill of lading.
Frank quickly scanned over entries like factor, port of embarkation, transshipment point, until — "Here it is — consignee. That's the person who's supposed to receive it."
He read the name typed beside the form entry. "Forte Brothers, Inc."
He raised an
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