The Curse of the Ancient Emerald by Franklin W. Dixon

started exchanging e-mails using this address.
    â€œFrank!” said Joe urgently. “He’s coming back!”
    Perfect. I started frantically paging through the e-mails, skimming each one for contact details.
    â€œHow much time do I have?” I asked.
    â€œAbout a minute, I think,” he replied.
    I frowned and sped up my search even more. Nothing, nothing. Boring. Nothing.
    â€œThirty seconds!” said Joe. “We gotta go.”
    â€œJust a bit longer . . .” There had to be something. Some clue, some—
    There.
    Trethaway had met up with Kruger/Brody at his place of work.
    I noted the address, exited the e-mail program, then closed the laptop. As Joe and I rushed back to the bathroom and were climbing out the window, I noticed a pile of old magazines in the room across the hallway. At that moment I heard Trethaway’s keys in the door, and I sprinted around the side of the house, joining Joe as we ran for our car.

CONFUSION
8
JOE
    F RANK AND I DECIDED OUR best move would be to track down “Stephen Brody” and turn him over to the police. That way, this whole thing could end without anyone getting hurt. We considered telling the police first, but if anything went wrong, the Phantom would be free to carry out his threats against our friends and family. We didn’t want to risk that.
    His place of business, an auto repair shop and salvage yard, was in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. It was filled with old, rusted car frames and piles of worn tires strewn amid weeds and metal barrels. A heavy pounding came from inside the garage itself. Flashes of blue light illuminated the dim interior as somebody used an arc welder.
    Frank nudged me and pointed. Off to the right was a little office partition with glass walls.
    Seated behind the desk was Jack Kruger. He looked just like the guy from the article we’d read about Dad catching him; this guy was just a bit grayer around the temples.
    Adrenaline rushed through me. Here was the guy who’d been giving us such a hard time—the guy who’d set fire to a priceless painting, who had almost killed me with a sword. The office was the perfect place to confront him; there was nowhere for him to go.
    Frank knocked on the door. I tensed, waiting for him to see us and launch into an attack. But all he did was put down the magazine he’d been reading and smile.
    â€œHi, there. What can I do for you?”
    Frank and I glanced at each other uncertainly. This was the right guy, wasn’t it? It certainly looked like the picture of Kruger from the newspaper.
    â€œMr. Brody?” said Frank.
    Kruger got up and came around the desk. He lifted his hand. I tensed, but all he did was hold it out for Frank to shake.
    â€œHow can I help you? You got a car that needs fixing?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “No car. Actually, we’re not looking for Mr. Brody.”
    Kruger looked slightly puzzled. “Then who are you looking for?”
    â€œJack Kruger,” I said.
    I watched Kruger carefully as I said his name. I expected anger, fury, a sudden attack. But all I saw was sorrow.
    Kruger turned away from us and went back to his desk. “What do you want?” he asked heavily.
    â€œIsn’t it obvious?” said Frank.
    He nodded. “Money, I suppose. How much?”
    Frank shook his head in confusion. “We don’t want money.”
    â€œThen what? What will it take for you to leave me alone?”
    â€œHey. We’re here to make you leave us alone,” I said.
    Kruger stared at us blankly. Finally he shrugged. “Sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    I took out the riddle about the samurai swords and dropped it on the table. He leaned forward and studied it, then looked at us quizzically.
    â€œIt’s a riddle,” he said.
    â€œUh . . . yeah ,” I said. “You sent it to us.”
    â€œNo, I