Crime in the Cards by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

asphalt parking lot. The mall lights were dark, but a three-quarter moon shown through a light cloud cover. The night was warm, and mist clung to the trunks of the trees dotting the hills that surrounded the mall.
    Chet dismounted and walked his bike past the boarded-up mall toward the north entrance, on the far side of the parking lot.
    â€œLet’s cut to the left and circle around back,” Joe suggested. “There’s a service road behind the mall, and we can use the woods back there for cover.”
    â€œRight,” Frank said. He and Joe kept to the shadows skirting the south edge of the lot. They wove across the battered pavement, dodging the dried weeds sprouting up through the cracks in the asphalt.
    â€œI see why they said not to bring a car,” Frank said in a low voice. “The lot is littered with broken glass.”
    â€œLooks like a recycling center waiting to happen,” Joe agreed.
    They pulled around the back of the mall and onto the service road. Recent rains had left a wide puddle running across the center of the access lane. A fallen birch tree blocked the road near the center of the mall.
    Joe’s eyes followed the ridge behind the building. “I think I see the path that Callie mentioned,” he said, indicating an opening in the woods.
    Frank nodded. “Nice to know about, even if we don’t use it,” he said. “Let’s find Chet and then call the girls. You’ve got the cell phone?”
    â€œAt the ready,” Joe said, patting his pocket.
    They passed numerous doors on their way north. Many of the portals, like the windows out front, had been boarded over. Some, though, were bolted shut by heavy security locks.
    Just before they reached the north entrance, the brothers noticed a half-dozen bicycles chained to trees. They also spotted three motorbikes and an ATV, locked to lampposts nearby.
    â€œLooks like a regular convention,” Joe whispered.
    Frank nodded. “Let’s cut upslope into the trees,” he said.
    The Hardys did so, and a minute later they had the north entrance to the mall in sight. One of the entry-way’s doors stood open and dim light leaked out from inside.
    A figure dressed in a black monk’s robe stood by the door. He had his hood pulled up over his head so that, even using the binoculars they’d brought, neither Frank nor Joe recognized him. The brothers watched quietly as Chet approached the door.
    â€œHey, Chet-man,” the hooded figure said, the night air carrying his words to where the brothers sat hidden. “Glad you could make it. Chain your bike to a tree out back and come on in. Did you bring your money and any cards you have left?”
    â€œI brought them,” Chet said, looking a bit nervous. “But I still don’t know what I brought them for.”
    â€œThe big game, Chet,” the figure said. “Boy, I thought you knew.” The monk pulled his hood back to reveal his face in the dim light from the doorway. It was Gerry Wise. He smiled broadly. “We do this nearly every month,” Gerry said. “Admission’s fifteen bucks.”
    â€œAdmission to what?” Chet asked.
    Gerry laughed. “You really are out of the loop,” he said. “It’s a keeper game. People come from all over the county to play. You put your deck up against someone else’s, and the winner gets his pick of cards from the other’s deck.”
    Chet nodded uneasily.
    â€œI’ve heard of this kind of game,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Chet probably doesn’t have the cards to compete in this.”
    â€œGerry,” Chet said, “you know my deck got swiped. I really don’t have any good cards.”
    â€œWell, you’re in luck, Chet-man,” Gerry said. “ Minimum to play is three cards worth ten dollars each— and I just happen to have a small selection with me. So, for only forty-five, including admission, you can