"Okay, let’s hear what you’ve got." Henderson directed. "You didn’t seem awfully surprised about Leroy Crigger attacking you in your hotel room."

Between them, Frank and Joe told the story of the afternoon’s events, the dinner with Mike Fogle, and the nocturnal assault. Barnes and Henderson listened intently, occasionally inserting a question.

"You don’t have any idea who was driving the Go-Kart?" Len Henderson asked.

"No," Frank shook his head. "He was masked. But size-wise, it might have been Crigger."

"Crigger’s been a busy boy today, if it was." Agent Barnes remarked. He glanced at Joe, who had said very little. "Joe, are you feeling all right? Recovered from the chloroform yet?"

"Pretty much - but I feel awfully dragged out." Joe admitted.

"We’ll make this fast." Henderson assured him. "Let’s tell them what we’ve found out, Kevin."

"Right - I’ve got two men inside the Parthenon security team now." Barnes began. "They found something very interesting. One of them reported that there is a fake painting in the mix, one by Francois Boucher. And the frame of that painting is loaded with plastique."

"Fogle’s planning to blow up the museum?" Joe cried incredulously.

"Affirmative." was Barnes’ crisp rejoinder. "Well - someone’s planning to blow up the museum. We haven’t proof it’s Fogle who’s behind it." he added. "We don’t know why he would want to blow up the art exhibit, or when he might want to do it; we do know that there was only plastique in that picture frame - no detonation device."

"It will be added later." Frank said. "And I’ll bet it’s remote-controlled, not set off with a timer."

"Why do you say that?" Sgt. Henderson asked.

"Because Fogle wants Dad to know when Joe’s on television…." Frank stopped, as realization finally swept through him as to Fogle’s fiendish plan. "He wants Dad to watch Joe die." he finished, very quietly.

Joe looked shocked. "But he would be killing more than just me!" he protested. "All the other kids…."

"I don’t think he cares." Frank replied. "You should have seen his scrap book." Oops! I shouldn’t have said that….

"Scrap book?" Henderson inquired.

Before Frank could reply, Barnes held up a cautioning hand. "Do we really want to know?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

"I saw a red wig in Fogle’s house, through a window." Frank volunteered, veering away from the subject of scrap books.

"We’ll get a warrant and search his place tomorrow, while he’s at the Parthenon." Kevin Barnes stated. He thoughtfully stared at Joe, who still looked a bit shaken at the thought of Fogle blowing up a whole crowd of people merely to kill him. "Joe, you don’t have to go tomorrow, you know."

"Oh, I’m going, all right!" the younger Hardy declared firmly.

"No!" Frank objected. "It’s way too dangerous, Joe-"

"We’ve already replaced the plastique in the frame with a non-explosive substance, Frank." Barnes interrupted. "It’s the same color and consistency as plastique, so neither Brookshire nor Fogle should be able to tell the difference."

"See?" Joe threw his brother a triumphant look. "I’m going!" Then he frowned thoughtfully. "If the fake painting is at the Parthenon with something that isn’t plastique in the frame, where’s the real painting?"

"It’s at Bradley Brookshire’s," Henderson told him. "I guess you didn’t get filled in on that. Sorry, Joe."

"When was it switched? And are you going to just leave it at Brookshire’s place?

"Until tomorrow, yes." Henderson nodded. "We’re going to leave it where it is for now. We’re keeping an eye on it, and we don’t want to do anything that might tip them off."

"What about the painter?" Frank asked. "Who was the artist who did the forgery - and if it’s an obvious fake, why bother changing it out at all?"

"Fogle did the copy." Barnes informed them, and chuckled at the incredulous looks on their faces.

"Fogle did it?" Joe gasped in disbelief.

"It’s a poor copy; I imagine Fogle’s intent is to detonate the bomb either as soon as it is revealed as a fake, or just before." Henderson said.

"But Fogle did the fake?" Frank couldn’t believe it either.

"He’s actually taken several art classes, over the past five years." Barnes said, and glanced at his notes. "One of the precinct psychologists we spoke with said that Fogle took them to relieve stress. Police officers take courses every year, to keep up to date and on top of things - and this was recommended as something relaxing."

"That’s a relief." Joe sighed. "I’d hate to think he’d been planning this for five years!"

"He couldn’t have." Frank pointed out. "How could he know that there would be an art show that you would be attending, which would be televised so that he could make sure Dad watched it?"

Henderson stood up. "All right, that’s all for tonight. I want you two to go back to the hotel and get some sleep. It’s…" he glanced at his watch. "…not quite 3:30. You should be able to catch a couple more hours, at least."

Glad to obey, the Hardys returned to their hotel and fell, exhausted, into bed. This time, there were no unwelcome interruptions.

*****

In the morning, Rich Sutton and Perry Nichols joined Frank and Joe for breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. Over plates of French toast and bacon, the boys discussed the startling events of the previous night. Rich and Perry listened, horrified, as Frank related the attack in their room. Then Joe explained what they had learned at the late-night meeting at the police station.

"What do you want us to do?" Rich asked, when Joe concluded.

"Keep an eye on Joe!" Frank said, before Joe could reply. "I’m going to be upstairs with the other members of the security team most of the day. Since Fogle wants Dad to see whatever it is he has planned for Joe, I think he’ll be safe enough until the filming starts. But when the bomb doesn’t go off as scheduled, Fogle may try some other way of killing him."

"But we aren’t supposed to be at the Parthenon until this afternoon." Perry objected.

"What about this morning? What are you supposed to be doing?" Frank queried, in some surprise. "What does Mr. Freemont have planned?"

"Don’t know," Joe replied briefly, gulping orange juice. "He said he’d let us know this morning."

"We’re supposed to meet in the lobby at 9:00." Rich supplied.

After breakfast, the four boys went to the hotel lobby, and waited there as the rest of Joe’s classmates gathered. At last, Mr. Freemont quieted them, and made his announcement.

"Since this is our last day here, I’m allowing you to have the morning free to do as you please." he said. "However, it is a must that you are back here by noon, and no later, ready to depart for the Parthenon. So keep that time in mind." He clapped his hands together. "All right, off with you, and I’ll see you here at noon."

Frank went up to the teacher, as the students streamed off in various directions. "Mr. Freemont, could I ask a favor? Joe and I, and Rich Sutton and Perry Nichols, are going to be spending the morning at the Parthenon. Could we meet you there, instead of coming back here?"

"Why yes, Frank; I suppose that would be all right." Mr. Freemont nodded. "We’ll meet you there about 12:30, then."

The four boys walked out of the hotel, heading for the Hardys’ van. "Are we really going to the Parthenon this morning?" Joe asked quietly.

Frank gave him a sly smile. "Later we are."

"Then where are we going now?" Rich demanded impatiently.

"I think we should split up." Frank replied. "Rich, you and Joe can check out Bradley Brookshire’s house. You have the address?" he added, to his brother.

Joe nodded.

"While you do that, Perry and I will go to the police station and see if the interrogators have made any headway with Leroy Crigger." Frank said. "But you two be careful; Brookshire’s place is under police surveillance, remember!"

"We’ll meet you at the Parthenon, then." Joe said. "I guess it’s taxis, one more time." He shook his head, grinning sardonically.

"No need, I’ll drop you near Brookshire’s," Frank decided, changing his plans slightly. "And then Perry and I will go back to the police station."

Perhaps 15 minutes later, Joe and Rich got out of the van a couple of blocks from Bradley Brookshire’s residence. They waved as Frank and Perry drove away, then set out for their destination.

When Frank and Perry arrived at the police station, they were disappointed to find that neither Sgt. Henderson nor Agent Barnes were there.

"I suppose they’re allowed to get some sleep," Frank admitted, with a wry smile. "Could we possibly talk to Chief Winslow?" he asked the desk officer, although he didn’t hold out much hope that his request would be honored.

Surprisingly, they were ushered to the chief’s office in less than five minutes. Winslow gestured them to seats, and nodded in a friendly fashion when Frank introduced Perry.

"We stopped by to see if you’d learned anything from Leroy Crigger." Frank told the chief.

Winslow looked sour. "He’s keeping quiet - refused to talk so far. However, we did get an address for him, and we’ve had his hotel room searched. Interesting things turned up: a photograph of Donald Tremaine, the trench coat he was wearing the night Frank saw him in disguise, and some plastique."

"Does Crigger know all this stuff was found in his room?" Frank asked.

"He ought to," the chief said wryly. "Why?"

"It just seems like an awful lot of evidence there." Frank commented. "The wig is over at Fogle’s place - so why not the whole disguise? Why was the trench coat in Crigger’s room?"

Winslow looked thoughtful. He took a few meditative puffs on his cigar, then laid it down in the ashtray on his desk.

"Look," Frank pressed. "Maybe Fogle is planning on laying this whole thing on Crigger and Brookshire. Does Fogle know Crigger has been taken into custody?"

"No," the chief admitted. "He radioed in a little while ago and said he was on his way to the Parthenon. He wasn’t told about Crigger."

"Maybe Crigger really doesn’t know what was in his room." Frank persisted. "Where were the things found, in plain sight?"

"No," came the reply. "The plastique was in a metal box under the bed; the coat was in the bathroom, under some dirty towels."

"And the picture of Tremaine?"

"In the wastebasket." Winslow said slowly.

"Why would Crigger hide some of the evidence, and carelessly leave the rest lying around?" Perry asked.

"He wouldn’t." the chief said. "That’s what Frank’s getting at." He reached for the intercom on his desk, and depressed a key. "Markham, I’d like Leroy Crigger taken to an interrogation room. Five minutes." He looked across his desk at the boys as he switched off the intercom. "Frank, do you want to sit in on this?"

Frank nodded. "I’d appreciate that, yes."

Perry stirred restlessly. "Um - I think I’ll wait for you by the snack machine, Frank. I need something to wet my whistle."

Frank bit back a smile. He hoped Chief Winslow didn’t pick up on it, but he knew the cigar smoke was getting to Perry; not sitting in on the interrogation was a good excuse for him to get away from it! Aloud, he said "Okay, Perry; that’s probably the best plan."

Winslow and Frank entered the interrogation room a few minutes later, and found Leroy Crigger already there, with a uniformed officer guarding him. The thug looked up sourly as they went in.

"I’m not talking until I see my lawyer!" he growled. "This is all a big frame, that’s what it is!"

"I agree." Frank said mildly, and sat down.

Crigger stared at him, nonplussed. "Huh?"

"I said, ‘I agree’," Frank repeated. "I think you are being framed."

"For someone you tried to choke the life out of, Mr. Hardy is being very understanding." Chief Winslow commented. "Based on the evidence found in your hotel room, he’s purporting that you’ve been used as a convenient scapegoat, Crigger."

"What evidence?" Crigger demanded. "There’s nothin’ in my hotel room!"

"On the contrary," the chief said. "There was a lot." He proceeded to explain to Crigger just what had been found in his room, and where. The criminal grew more and more agitated as Winslow’s recital continued.

"That dirty snake! That yellow-bellied, lily-livered coward! He set me up!" Crigger erupted in a furious tirade. "It was all Fogle’s idea! He wanted to off Joe Hardy on camera - during the TV broadcast!"

"Why?" Winslow snapped.

"Aw, because Fenton Hardy killed his dad, years back." Crigger grumbled. "Fogle saw it happen, and he wants Hardy to go through the pain he did." Evidently the thug had reconsidered his vow not to talk without a lawyer present.

Frank felt a little sick. "Why have you been trying to kill me, then?" he managed to ask.

Crigger turned cold eyes on the elder Hardy. "You saw me," he stated simply. "I didn’t think you could see through my disguise, but when I saw you in the restroom at the restaurant later, I knew you were following me."

"At the restaurant…?" Frank tilted his head and looked hard at Crigger. Finally, light dawned, and he began to chuckle. "If I was following you, then why was I in the restroom before you were?" he inquired. "I hadn’t a clue who you were!"

Crigger stared at him in consternation, then swore bitterly. "I’ve just made it worse on myself." he admitted.

"Why didn’t you just quit?" Frank persisted. "After the first day or so, you must have realized I couldn’t finger you!"

"I was going to," Crigger admitted. "But first Fogle wanted the key you found, and then he called and said he wanted you eliminated so you couldn’t mess up his plans. He wanted you killed, but Joe left alone. I almost had you, when we shot out your tires, but you got away. Then Fogle told me you were headed to Wheels, so I tried again."

"And when that didn’t work out, you chloroformed Joe and tried to strangle me, in our room." Frank said.

"Yeah." Crigger allowed, reluctantly.

"Who put the plastique in the picture frame?" Chief Winslow asked.

"Brookshire did." was the reply. "Fogle brought us the painting, and told Brad to keep it at his place. Brad filled the frame with explosive, and Fogle took it away with him."

"What were you going to do with the real painting?" Frank asked curiously.

"Fogle said he knew a buyer for it. He was going to sell it, and split the proceeds with Brookshire and me."

"How did you get involved with Fogle?" the chief queried.

"He threatened to turn me in, if I didn’t do some work for him." Crigger muttered. "He knew where I was living, and he told me he had proof of something I’d done."

"What was that?" Winslow demanded.

Crigger remained sullenly silent, only giving the police officer a look which said: You’ve got to be kidding!

"Wait a minute," Frank said. "You say Fogle plans to ‘off Joe on camera’." His throat tightened as he uttered the words, but he maintained his composure and continued speaking. "But Fogle couldn’t have known this was going to be filmed for sure, until this week."

"Ah, that’s Brookshire’s baby." Crigger bragged. "He’s an electronics whiz! Fogle’s going to film Joe being killed and splice it into the live feed later. If it hadn’t been televised, Fogle was going to have it inserted into the evening news broadcast."

"How was Fogle going to get Joe?"

Crigger’s answer made Frank’s blood suddenly run cold. "Was? He’s going to snatch Joe today."