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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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"Look," said Joe. "There's Wilson, third from the back. Now we've got him."
As if on cue, Jed's car pulled out of the line and onto the shoulder in front of Frank and Joe.
Frank stepped on the accelerator—but the van wouldn't move.
"We're stuck. The wheels are spinning!"
"I'll push!" Joe replied. He hopped out of the van and braced himself against the back.
After the second heave, the van edged out of the rut. Joe hopped in and they took off.
The ride along the bumpy shoulder jostled the brothers. Far ahead of them, they could see Jed moving back onto the street.
Frank pulled back on the road, right behind a silver-haired man in a dark green Porsche. "Come on, move it!" shouted Joe as he reached over and pressed the van's horn.
"There's an easier way than that," said Frank. Before them, the road stretched out into a straightaway. Frank pulled into the left lane to pass the car. As he sped past, he glanced over at the man in the sports car.
It was Mr. Rogers.
"The plot thickens," Frank said. He floored the gas pedal and took off in a burst of speed. After he pulled in front, he checked the rear-view mirror. The sports car had speeded up and was now gaining on them.
"Don't look now, but we've gone from being the chaser to the chasee," said Frank. He suddenly made a sharp left onto a side street. Joe's right shoulder banged into the door as the tires screamed.
"Ouch!" Joe yelled.
"Sorry about that," said Frank. He saw Rogers's car in the rear-view mirror as he swung right at the next block. Quickly he turned left, left, and right among the residential streets of Kirkland. The small side streets were pretty much deserted. Only one old brick building they passed was well lit up. Frank barreled on by it.
All of a sudden the night air was pierced by a siren.
"That was the police station, Frank!" Joe cried, slapping his forehead.
A squad car pulled out of the station with its lights glaring. Frank pulled the van over to the curb. The car stopped behind him, and a police officer got out and slowly walked to the van.
"I'm glad I let you drive," Joe said sarcastically.
The officer looked into the van. "Testing out the streets, boys?" he said. "They work all right for you?"
"Sorry, officer, I got carried away," Frank answered.
"Maybe we can discuss this in the station house. You can leave your van here, and let it catch its breath."
Frank and Joe followed the officer into the station house down the block. As they crossed the street, Mr. Rogers drove slowly by them, staring at Frank.
The officer brought Frank and Joe into a drab but brightly lit room with five molded plastic chairs. "Have a seat, gentlemen," he said. "And I'll take your license and registration, please."
While writing out the summons, the officer walked slowly back and forth. It seemed like hours before he finished.
"Okay, Mr. Hardy," he said to Frank. "All I'm allowed to do is give you a speeding ticket. But I have a message for you—next time you pass through Kirkland, you better be extra careful, because I can make life very rough for you. Understood?"
Frank nodded and took his ticket. The officer said, "Now I want you to give the keys to your friend here, who will drive you and your van very slowly out of town."
Joe took the keys, trying to hold back a grin, and the brothers walked back out to the van.
"So," said Joe as they climbed into the van, "you sure you feel safe with a 'stockcar racer' behind the wheel?"
"Score one for you," said Frank. "Now let's get out of here."
"Yes, sir," answered Joe. "And while I'm driving safely, you can tell me why that silver-haired guy was following us."
Frank explained about Rogers as Joe pulled away from the station house.
Joe drove carefully back toward Chartwell, going twenty-five miles an hour, stopping at yellow lights—and generally driving Frank crazy.
"You're doing this on purpose, Joe—" Frank said as Joe slowed to fifteen miles an hour along the road by the river.
"Shhh!" Joe
"Look," said Joe. "There's Wilson, third from the back. Now we've got him."
As if on cue, Jed's car pulled out of the line and onto the shoulder in front of Frank and Joe.
Frank stepped on the accelerator—but the van wouldn't move.
"We're stuck. The wheels are spinning!"
"I'll push!" Joe replied. He hopped out of the van and braced himself against the back.
After the second heave, the van edged out of the rut. Joe hopped in and they took off.
The ride along the bumpy shoulder jostled the brothers. Far ahead of them, they could see Jed moving back onto the street.
Frank pulled back on the road, right behind a silver-haired man in a dark green Porsche. "Come on, move it!" shouted Joe as he reached over and pressed the van's horn.
"There's an easier way than that," said Frank. Before them, the road stretched out into a straightaway. Frank pulled into the left lane to pass the car. As he sped past, he glanced over at the man in the sports car.
It was Mr. Rogers.
"The plot thickens," Frank said. He floored the gas pedal and took off in a burst of speed. After he pulled in front, he checked the rear-view mirror. The sports car had speeded up and was now gaining on them.
"Don't look now, but we've gone from being the chaser to the chasee," said Frank. He suddenly made a sharp left onto a side street. Joe's right shoulder banged into the door as the tires screamed.
"Ouch!" Joe yelled.
"Sorry about that," said Frank. He saw Rogers's car in the rear-view mirror as he swung right at the next block. Quickly he turned left, left, and right among the residential streets of Kirkland. The small side streets were pretty much deserted. Only one old brick building they passed was well lit up. Frank barreled on by it.
All of a sudden the night air was pierced by a siren.
"That was the police station, Frank!" Joe cried, slapping his forehead.
A squad car pulled out of the station with its lights glaring. Frank pulled the van over to the curb. The car stopped behind him, and a police officer got out and slowly walked to the van.
"I'm glad I let you drive," Joe said sarcastically.
The officer looked into the van. "Testing out the streets, boys?" he said. "They work all right for you?"
"Sorry, officer, I got carried away," Frank answered.
"Maybe we can discuss this in the station house. You can leave your van here, and let it catch its breath."
Frank and Joe followed the officer into the station house down the block. As they crossed the street, Mr. Rogers drove slowly by them, staring at Frank.
The officer brought Frank and Joe into a drab but brightly lit room with five molded plastic chairs. "Have a seat, gentlemen," he said. "And I'll take your license and registration, please."
While writing out the summons, the officer walked slowly back and forth. It seemed like hours before he finished.
"Okay, Mr. Hardy," he said to Frank. "All I'm allowed to do is give you a speeding ticket. But I have a message for you—next time you pass through Kirkland, you better be extra careful, because I can make life very rough for you. Understood?"
Frank nodded and took his ticket. The officer said, "Now I want you to give the keys to your friend here, who will drive you and your van very slowly out of town."
Joe took the keys, trying to hold back a grin, and the brothers walked back out to the van.
"So," said Joe as they climbed into the van, "you sure you feel safe with a 'stockcar racer' behind the wheel?"
"Score one for you," said Frank. "Now let's get out of here."
"Yes, sir," answered Joe. "And while I'm driving safely, you can tell me why that silver-haired guy was following us."
Frank explained about Rogers as Joe pulled away from the station house.
Joe drove carefully back toward Chartwell, going twenty-five miles an hour, stopping at yellow lights—and generally driving Frank crazy.
"You're doing this on purpose, Joe—" Frank said as Joe slowed to fifteen miles an hour along the road by the river.
"Shhh!" Joe
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