around. "Disappeared." Except for the garbage truck making its pickups and a late-model cream-colored van nosed into an alley beside a vacant brick building, the street was empty. No signs of Lightfoot.
Suddenly Frank noticed a weak blip. He was almost on top of it. "No, wait," Frank said. "Something's showing on the screen, very faint. He must have taken his bike inside somewhere."
"Stay with it," Joe said encouragingly.
"Yeah," Frank said. He cruised slowly up the block, searching the buildings for any sign of movement. Of course, he could always park on the street and wait for Lightfoot to come out again. But by then the damage would have been done. The important character — the guy who was photographing the package—would have gotten away.
And then Frank saw it. A movement between the van and the building, in the alley. He glanced over his right shoulder as he passed it.
He punched the brake, sliding to a stop. "Joe," he shouted. "We finally got a break. Lightfoot just climbed into a van down here — bag, bike, and all. This could be it, brother."
Frank pulled into an empty lot just down the street from where he'd spotted Lightfoot. He backed the Hardys' van behind a dumpster, so it would be less obvious to passing traffic.
"I think we've struck pay dirt," Frank said. "Unless I'm dead wrong, right this minute somebody inside that van is photographing the contents of Lightfoot's package."
"Nice trick," Joe replied. "Now what?"
"No way I can break into that tin can. So I wait," Frank said. "And then I tail." few minutes later the van went down the street, heading west. "Here we go," Frank said, and eased his van out from behind the dumpster, letting the other van have a half-block lead. From under the seat, he picked up a small pair of binoculars and read the van's license number. He could see the back of a head — Lightfoot? — through the rear window.
Ahead of him, the van turned right. Two blocks later, it double-parked beside the cars that lined the curb, its hazard lights flashing. The back doors opened. Lightfoot stepped out, bike in one hand. In the van, a stocky figure in coveralls pulled the doors closed behind him.
"There's Lightfoot," Frank reported to Joe, as the messenger mounted his bike with a graceful movement and headed out! "Looks like he's on his way to the branch office." The van's hazard lights went off and it pulled into traffic.
"And the van?" '
"I'm staying with it," Frank said, making a right turn behind the van. "I've got the license number. I'm going to call Dad and have him check it out. Talk to you later." He switched off the radio and punched the buttons on the van's mobile phone, keeping one eye on the cream-colored vehicle in front of him. He heard the phone in the hotel room ringing.
Without warning there was movement to his right. A large delivery truck pulled out with maddening slowness, blocking his path. Frank leaned on the horn and started to swerve to the left, but a yellow taxi was coming head-on at him in the other lane.
He yanked the wheel back and hit the brakes.
When Fenton Hardy answered the hotel phone he was greeted with the sounds of screeching tires, then a sickening thud.
"Frank?" he yelled into the receiver, but no one answered.
Chapter 8
The Hardys' van had stopped inches short of the delivery truck. Frank was thrown forward, his stomach slammed against the steering wheel. The blow knocked the wind out of him.
Frank looked up and watched the vehicle ahead of him make a right turn. He could see that the street ahead was clear — the cream-colored van had disappeared.
Frank regained his breath and groaned. "Lost it."
"Frank?" Mr. Hardy demanded. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Frank said with a sigh. "Listen, Dad, I need you to check a registration. Late-model cream-colored van. License number ACQ one fifty."
"Got it," Mr. Hardy said. "What's the story?"
"I was tailing it just now," Frank said. "A delivery truck cut me off, and I barely avoided
Suddenly Frank noticed a weak blip. He was almost on top of it. "No, wait," Frank said. "Something's showing on the screen, very faint. He must have taken his bike inside somewhere."
"Stay with it," Joe said encouragingly.
"Yeah," Frank said. He cruised slowly up the block, searching the buildings for any sign of movement. Of course, he could always park on the street and wait for Lightfoot to come out again. But by then the damage would have been done. The important character — the guy who was photographing the package—would have gotten away.
And then Frank saw it. A movement between the van and the building, in the alley. He glanced over his right shoulder as he passed it.
He punched the brake, sliding to a stop. "Joe," he shouted. "We finally got a break. Lightfoot just climbed into a van down here — bag, bike, and all. This could be it, brother."
Frank pulled into an empty lot just down the street from where he'd spotted Lightfoot. He backed the Hardys' van behind a dumpster, so it would be less obvious to passing traffic.
"I think we've struck pay dirt," Frank said. "Unless I'm dead wrong, right this minute somebody inside that van is photographing the contents of Lightfoot's package."
"Nice trick," Joe replied. "Now what?"
"No way I can break into that tin can. So I wait," Frank said. "And then I tail." few minutes later the van went down the street, heading west. "Here we go," Frank said, and eased his van out from behind the dumpster, letting the other van have a half-block lead. From under the seat, he picked up a small pair of binoculars and read the van's license number. He could see the back of a head — Lightfoot? — through the rear window.
Ahead of him, the van turned right. Two blocks later, it double-parked beside the cars that lined the curb, its hazard lights flashing. The back doors opened. Lightfoot stepped out, bike in one hand. In the van, a stocky figure in coveralls pulled the doors closed behind him.
"There's Lightfoot," Frank reported to Joe, as the messenger mounted his bike with a graceful movement and headed out! "Looks like he's on his way to the branch office." The van's hazard lights went off and it pulled into traffic.
"And the van?" '
"I'm staying with it," Frank said, making a right turn behind the van. "I've got the license number. I'm going to call Dad and have him check it out. Talk to you later." He switched off the radio and punched the buttons on the van's mobile phone, keeping one eye on the cream-colored vehicle in front of him. He heard the phone in the hotel room ringing.
Without warning there was movement to his right. A large delivery truck pulled out with maddening slowness, blocking his path. Frank leaned on the horn and started to swerve to the left, but a yellow taxi was coming head-on at him in the other lane.
He yanked the wheel back and hit the brakes.
When Fenton Hardy answered the hotel phone he was greeted with the sounds of screeching tires, then a sickening thud.
"Frank?" he yelled into the receiver, but no one answered.
Chapter 8
The Hardys' van had stopped inches short of the delivery truck. Frank was thrown forward, his stomach slammed against the steering wheel. The blow knocked the wind out of him.
Frank looked up and watched the vehicle ahead of him make a right turn. He could see that the street ahead was clear — the cream-colored van had disappeared.
Frank regained his breath and groaned. "Lost it."
"Frank?" Mr. Hardy demanded. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Frank said with a sigh. "Listen, Dad, I need you to check a registration. Late-model cream-colored van. License number ACQ one fifty."
"Got it," Mr. Hardy said. "What's the story?"
"I was tailing it just now," Frank said. "A delivery truck cut me off, and I barely avoided
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