The London Deception by Franklin W. Dixon

gate almost fell on me.”
    â€œHe said he was meeting with Mr. Kije,” Joe said. “Maybe it’s Mr. Kije we need to investigate.”
    â€œFor the sake of Chris and the show, I think you and I had better get permission to miss school tomorrow, too,” Frank suggested before saying good night and rolling over to sleep.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The next day the Hardys, Chris, and Mr. Paul stopped to grab breakfast at the Lamb and Wolf, a pub just down the street from the Quill Garden Theatre.
    Joe watched Mr. Paul, who stared blankly out the window, clearly crestfallen by the announcement that he would soon be making to the cast and crew of the show.
    Chris checked his watch and suddenly got up from the table. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you all at the theater.”
    â€œWhat’s up with Chris?” Joe wondered.
    â€œWith all the trouble, it’s no wonder he’s anxious,” Mr. Paul replied.
    Frank watched their red-haired friend through the window as Chris hurried down the street. Quill Garden Road bustled with activity. A new café had a Grand Opening banner hanging over the entrance, and the construction crew was working full tilt on the building across from the Quill Garden.
    â€œDo you know what that’s going to be?” Frank asked Mr. Paul.
    â€œWhat?” Mr. Paul asked, preoccupied. “Oh, it’s going to be one of those multiplex cinemas you Americans are so fond of.”
    Joe noticed a white limousine pulling up outside.Two men, one with close-cut black hair and the other with a frizzy mass of blond hair, stepped out of it.
    A commotion erupted by the door as patrons of the pub rose from their seats and crowded around the man with frizzy hair. The black-haired man politely pushed the crowd away from the blond man, then they took a seat together in one of the booths.
    â€œIs he a rock ’n’ roll star?” Joe asked Mr. Paul.
    Mr. Paul looked over his shoulder. “Bigger than a rock star, he’s a footballer.”
    â€œA footballer?” Joe asked.
    â€œA soccer player,” Mr. Paul explained, seemingly unenthused. “John Moeller—he’s a superstar right winger for West Ham United.”
    â€œWow, I’ve never seen a soccer player get that kind of reaction,” Frank said.
    â€œIn Europe it’s as big a sport as American football, baseball, or basketball,” Mr. Paul explained. “And its heroes are like royalty.”
    â€œA soccer match in England,” Joe said, grinning at the idea. “Now, that’s something I’d love to see.”
    â€œIf you come back in six months, you can see him play in the World Cup,” Mr. Paul told him. “England is hosting it this year.”
    Mr. Paul fell silent again, sighed heavily, and stared out the window. Joe could tell it was taxing him to make conversation, so they ate the rest of their meal in relative silence.
    When the Hardys and Mr. Paul walked into the theater lobby a little while later, Corey Lista was waiting.
    â€œI have the cast and crew assembled, Mr. Paul,” Lista said, then referred to a sheet on his clipboard. “They’re all here except for your son and, of course, Neville Shah.”
    â€œThank you, Corey,” Mr. Paul responded, trying to smile.
    Joe saw Emily Anderson on the pay phone at the far end of the lobby and casually walked over to check out the show posters adorning the wall.
    â€œThe show may not go on after all.” Joe overheard her saying in a hushed voice. “I’ll know for sure after this meeting, Ian. You have to stall Schulander for another day.”
    Emily noticed Joe standing nearby and raised her voice. “I’ll ring you up after rehearsal then, yes?”
    Hanging up the phone, Emily smiled sweetly at Joe before walking into the theater.
    â€œMr. Paul!” Joe heard someone call. The ticket clerk hurried out of the box office, holding an envelope.