094-Breakdown in Axeblade by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-08-07T15:13:31+00:00

Chapter 8

Behind Bars

"Robbery! That's the craziest thing I've ever heard!" Joe said.

The handcuffs closed tightly with a series of sharp metallic clicks. Frank and Joe stood with their arms pinned stiffly behind their backs. Two deputies shoved them around a lot during the frisking and handcuffing.

"You're in enough trouble, son. Calling me crazy just isn't going to help your cause," said the sheriff. He wiped his wet forehead with a handkerchief. Then he gave orders to his men. "Stuff 'em in a squad car, boys, and smile so the people looking on out there know we're proud to be doing our job."

"You're doing a number on us, Sheriff, but you're not doing your job," Frank said.

A few minutes later, Frank and Joe were standing in the small police station. The handcuffs were removed, and the sheriff ordered the brothers to empty their pockets and have their fingerprints taken.

"I knew you boys were trouble the first night I saw you," said the sheriff.

A deputy inked up the fingers on Joe's right hand. Then he stamped Joe's fingerprints, one by one, on a form. Afterward, he said with a laugh, "Hey, J.P., how about this?" The deputy grabbed Joe's hand and rubbed the ink off on Joe's shirt.

Sheriff Arthur and the two deputies burst out laughing.

Maybe it was the laughter, or the way the man who was supposed to be in charge laughed just as hard as the other two, that filled Frank with so much anger. "Sheriff," Frank said as he was being fingerprinted, "who are we supposed to have robbed? You'd better have some proof."

The sheriff smiled and showed his teeth. "I got more than proof. How long did it take you to notice that Olive Morningside was gone for the week?" J. P. Arthur asked.

"We don't know her," Joe said.

"She's an old widow and a Sunday school teacher," the sheriff said.

Morningside? That time the name clicked for Frank. It was the name on the mailbox at the address Sara Dawson had given them.

The sheriff cleaned his top teeth by running his tongue over them. "You don't have to know her. But I got eyewitnesses, son, neighbors who say they saw you tonight at One Twenty-three Pine Barren Lane. You were there, weren't you?"

"We were there—because Sara Dawson told us to come there for dinner," Frank said.

"Yeah, she even wrote it down," Joe said. "What did you do with the stuff from our pockets?"

The sheriff opened a desk drawer and took out a plastic bag with a zip-lock top. He dumped the contents out on the desktop.

Joe looked through them. Then he shuffled the objects with his hands. "Hey, it's gone," he said. "What happened to that slip of paper?"

"Son, you got bigger things to worry about than a piece of paper that don't exist," said the sheriff. He shoved the Hardys' personal effects back into the bag and put it away. He pulled open another desk drawer and took out something that was rolled up in a piece of cloth.

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