Joe launched himself toward Frank, tackling him to the ground and rolling with him, just as the gate crashed onto the cobblestones behind them.
A woman across the alley leaned out of her apartment window. “Are you all right?” she asked, then went on without waiting for a response. “I’ve been telling them to haul that gate away before it fell on someone, and now look—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Joe interrupted, pointing to the window where he had seen the white hand. “Who lives in that flat?” He remembered to use the word flat instead of apartment.
“No one lives in that whole building,” the woman answered. “It’s abandoned.”
Frank had already moved to the back entrance, where he noticed that the door frame was splintered where the door had been jimmied open, possibly with a crow bar. “Someone’s pried open this door, Joe. Come on!”
Joe followed Frank into the abandoned building and up the stairs. The door to the second floor apartment on the alley was open, but no one was there.
They rushed up the central hallway and down the stairs to the main entrance, but the lock on that door was still in place. “Maybe he headed for the roof,” Joe suggested as he led the way back up the stairs.
As the boys reached the door to the roof, Frank again saw that the door had been jimmied open.
Pushing it open, Frank and Joe searched the roof of the abandoned building. On the roof was scattered debris—scraps of lumber, broken glass, and roofing material, but the Hardys found no sign of the person Joe had seen in the window.
Frank looked over the low wall that ran around the perimeter of the roof, but saw no ladder or any other means of escape.
“I don’t get it,” Frank told Joe. “How does this person keep eluding us?”
“Unless he or she is a ghost,” Joe said.
Frank saw a metal shaft sticking out from some debris and pulled it out. “A ghost who uses a crow bar?” Frank said, showing Joe the tiny splinters of wood stuck to the prying end of the bar. “Maybe it’s someone who wants us to think he’s a ghost.”
The boys descended the stairs and left through the rear door. Outside, James Bamberg was waiting, his face red, his expression angry. “Where did you lot go?” he asked the Hardys. “And what do you mean by nicking my mask and guide flag?” he added, pulling the crumpled mask and broken rod from beneath the fallen iron gate.
“We didn’t take them, Mr. Bamberg,” Frank told him.
“I gave the owner of the Seven Bells the what for,” Bamberg went on. “I thought one of his customers had nicked them.”
“Someone wearing that mask and using that rod lured us into a trap,” Frank said.
“I’ve been with the tour group,” Bamberg insisted, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Ask them. I only left them half a minute ago to come searching for you two.”
“Then it must have been someone at the Seven Bells who took it,” Joe deduced. “That means whoever tried to knock you off has been following us this whole time.”
“Knock him off?” Bamberg repeated, confused.
“Maybe David Young, that private investigator, never stopped following us,” Frank guessed.
“You need to speak with a constable,” Bamberg said. “And I need to rejoin my group. If you want to wait in front of the theater, I’ll ring the police and send them over.”
• • •
When Detective Inspector Ryan arrived and listened to the Hardys’ story, he acted rather callous about the whole thing. “We get reports approximately once a month about strange sounds in this theater.”
“What about the iron gate that almost turned Frank into a waffle?” Joe asked.
“We get reports twice a month about homeless men sleeping in that abandoned building,” Detective Inspector Ryan replied. “You probably frightened one of them, and he knocked the gate over by accident.”
“Knocked it over by accident? That gate weighs five hundred pounds,” Frank insisted.
“Boys, I’ll look into it,” Detective Inspector Ryan said with an impatient sigh. “Now, why don’t you two get home to bed.”
By the time the Hardys returned to the Pauls’ home, it was nearly ten P.M.
“I had begun to think one of the ghosts of Haunted London had done you in,” Chris joked.
“That’s not far from the truth,” Frank said, and retold the story of their evening.
“Granted, it sounds like someone has it in for you two,” Chris agreed. “But how could he be inside using power tools one minute, and outside wearing the guide’s costume the next?”
“We’re not sure,” Frank admitted.
“Somebody had to have followed us into the Seven Bells,” Joe pointed out, “so there may be an accomplice.”
Just then Mr. Paul walked in, looking glum, his head bowed.
“Dad, where have you been?” Chris asked.
“Meeting with Mr. Kije,” Mr. Paul replied. “The costumers needed half the money in advance.”
“Frank and Joe had another weird encounter outside the Quill Garden—” Chris began to tell him.
“Doesn’t matter, Chris,” Mr. Paul interrupted. “Mr. Kije can’t raise any more money. He’s going to cancel the show.”
Chris’s face dropped, and Joe put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve had Corey call a special meeting with the cast and crew tomorrow morning to tell them,” Mr. Paul said wearily.
“What about school?” Chris asked.
“Another teacher is covering my classes,” Mr. Paul replied. “The headmaster knows we won’t be there,” he added, then headed up the stairs to bed.
Joe and Frank stayed up another hour, whispering.
“I feel bad, not telling Chris about the private detective that Mr. Jeffries hired,” Joe said.
“But what if Mr. Jeffries is right to suspect Mr. Paul?” Frank conjectured. “What if Mr. Paul and Mr. Kije are afraid the show is going to flop and are trying to create reasons to break the contract with Mr. Jeffries and get their rent money back?”
“You’ve watched Mr. Paul in rehearsal,” Joe insisted. “He wants Innocent Victim to go on more than anyone.”
“I’ve also noticed that he suddenly appeared after the fire in the dressing room, saying he had been eating a late meal,” Frank reminded Joe. “And he could have been there tonight when the gate almost fell on me.”
“He said he was meeting with Mr. Kije,” Joe said. “Maybe it’s Mr. Kije we need to investigate.”
“For 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.
• • •
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.”
“What’s up with Chris?” Joe wondered.
“With 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.
“Do you know what that’s going to be?” Frank asked Mr. Paul.
“What?” 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.
“Is 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.”
“A footballer?” Joe asked.
“A soccer player,” Mr. Paul explained, seemingly unenthused. “John Moeller—he’s a superstar right winger for West Ham United.”
“Wow, I’ve never seen a soccer player get that kind of reaction,” Frank said.
“In Europe it’s as big a sport as American football, baseball, or basketball,” Mr. Paul explained. “And its heroes are like royalty.”
“A soccer match in England,” Joe said, grinning at the idea. “Now, that’s something I’d love to see.”
“If 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.
“I 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.”
“Thank 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.
“The 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.
“Mr. Paul!” Joe heard someone call. The ticket clerk hurried out of the box office, holding an envelope. “Mr. Paul, someone left this on the counter,” the clerk said, handing it to him. “It’s addressed to Mr. Kije.”
“ ‘From an anonymous donor,’ ” Mr. Paul read the outside of the envelope aloud before opening it.
As Joe walked beside him, Frank leaned over and whispered. “That’s a strange way to invest in a show.”
Mr. Paul pulled a check from the envelope, then gasped. “It’s a bank check for three thousand pounds.”