143-The Giant Rat of Sumatra by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-08-07T15:15:07+00:00

Chapter 8

Moriarty's Curse

The dressing-room door started to swing open. Frank was trapped, caught red handed ... or was he? He could see one slim chance to escape exposure—his only chance.

Frank jumped to his feet and made a silent dash the length of the room. Ducking behind the sheet that formed the front of the improvised closet, he quickly burrowed to the back of the row of costumes. They were dusty and smelled of greasepaint. He stood still and tried to breathe silently through his mouth.

Oh, no! he thought. The tackle box! He hadn't had time to close the lid. Gordean would notice it immediately. He would know someone had been in his dressing room. Would he search the room himself, or call for help?

Frank heard Gordean say, "You can't hide that way forever, you know."

Frank's pulse raced. He hadn't expected Gordean to spot him that quickly. Were his shoes showing under the row of costumes?

He was about to step out from behind the curtain when he heard the murmur of a second voice. With a rush of relief, Frank realized that Gordean had been talking to someone else. He hadn't discovered Frank—not yet at least.

Gordean said, "People do notice your reactions, even if you try to conceal them."

Another murmur.

"Tershous?" Gordean said. "I'd be very careful if I were you. An impressive talent, no doubt of that, but erratic. Not, in my view, to be trusted."

Frank strained his ears to hear the other half of the conversation, but all he picked up was more murmuring. He couldn't even be sure whether Gordean was talking to a man or a woman.

Gordean lowered his voice. "You know how much this role means to me. But I'm becoming more and more sure of one thing. The only chance this show has to survive is if some anonymous benefactor does a Moriarty on the Prince of Wales. And I don't know that we dare hope for that."

The door closed. Frank held his breath and waited for Gordean to notice the open tackle box. Instead, Gordean muttered, "Oh, bother!" A moment later, the door opened and shut again.

Frank risked peeking out between two of the tweed suits. The dressing room was empty. Obviously Gordean had forgotten something and had left to get it. How long would it take him? Five minutes? One? Less?

Slipping out of his hiding place, Frank hurried on tiptoes toward the door. He paused to close the lid of the tackle box. As he did, he noticed a crumpled plastic shopping bag in the wastebasket. He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Then he cautiously pulled the door open a crack and peered down the hall both ways. The corridor was empty. He slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him. Turning right, he walked in the direction of the stage.

Frank hadn't taken more than two or three steps when he saw Gordean coming toward him. The actor had a script in his hand and a look of preoccupation on his face.

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