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Reynard in formal clothes standing beside a
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large gray horse with a garland of flowers around its neck and a grinning
jockey on its back. The headline at the top of the page read, "French Horse
Wins Grand National
Steeplechase."
Frank leaned forward to read the accompanying story.
"Hey, this is interesting," he said. "It's all about how Paul Reynard has
devoted himself to breeding Percheron horses to become steeplechase racers. It
seems that centuries ago
Percherons used to carry Norman knights into battle, but after that they were
used only as farm horses, and in recent years the breed has been dying out.
Paul Reynard has turned his family estate in Normandy into a horse-breeding
ranch and has now restored the Percherons to their former glory."
"His nephews must love that," said Joe. "It's kept their uncle busy and out of
their hair."
Frank was still reading the article. "It says his estate is located close to
the town of
Bayeux, near the English Channel. The paper calls his arrival on the English
racing scene
'the most devastating invasion since William the Conqueror sailed from that
same
Norman coast to take over England almost a thousand years ago."
"Remind me to write him a fan letter if we ever get out of this alive," said
Joe, with a grimace of impatience at his brother. Leave it to Frank to get
involved in picking up some weird information when there were so many more
pressing things to
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do-like coming up with a plan for the moment the conference room door swung
open.
"We might be able to do more than write him a letter," said Frank, his eyes
lighting up.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe, who recognized the look on his brother's face.
It was the look that appeared when Frank came up with the solution to an
especially difficult problem.
"This picture has given me an idea," Frank replied. "Two ideas, actually."
"What are they?" Joe asked eagerly.
But before Frank could answer, they both heard a sound that cut their
conversation off.
It was a key being inserted in the lock.
"Too late," groaned Joe, his brief flare of hope dying.
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Their executioners had arrived.
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Chapter
11
THERE WAS NO time for Frank to explain his idea, just a few desperate seconds
to try it out.
He grabbed one of the paintings on the wall, and ran to one side of the
doorway.
Immediately Joe grabbed another, and ran to the other side. When Frank raised
the picture high above his head, Joe got the idea. He grinned, then tensed,
pressing against the wall as the door swung open.
Two men entered the room, moving with confidence that came from the guns in
their hands. Both were already inside before they hesitated and started to
look around for their victims.
That was all the time Frank and Joe needed. The paintings came crashing down
on the men with massive force. The canvases ripped on impact, and the heavy
frames were forced over the men's heads and shoulders, pinning their arms to
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their sides. They kicked and struggled, but it did no good.
Seconds later, the men collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. They
were feeling no pain. The Hardys' fists had done a good job of knocking them
out.
Frank 1ooked down at them. "Well, we're not the only ones who've been framed
now."
Joe laughed. "And the Reynards aren't the only ones with guns on their side."
Joe stooped to grab one man's weapon, while Frank took the other. "Let's go
get them," cried
Joe.
Frank shook his head. "And what do we do if we manage to capture them?"
"We turn them over to the cops and-" Joe stopped. Then he said, "I see what
you mean."
"Right. We can't show ourselves to the police. Not only would they not believe
our story, they'd arrest us as cop killers, and our chances of beating the rap
would be zilch since we can't get the Network involved."
"So what do we do? Where do we go?" asked Joe, looking with disgust at the
now-
useless gun in his hand.
Frank stuck his gun in his pocket. "What we do is go to the only man who can
turn the
Reynards over to the police and end the criminal activities of Reynard and
Company forever. The man who owns it. Paul Reynard himself."
Frank nodded toward the blowup of the news
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paper story about Paul Reynard's success as a horse breeder. "It says here
that the name of his place in Normandy is-surprise, surprise-Chateau Reynard.
Between Bayeux and the coast. Come on. Let's get out of here fast, before the
regular employees start coming to work."
"First, though, we need money," said Joe, stooping over to relieve one of the
men of his wallet. "We'll need tickets, among other things."
"These guys are pretty well-heeled for hoods," said Frank, taking the other
wallet and looking at the bills stuffed inside.
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"Probably got paid in advance for killing us," said Joe.
Cautiously the Hardys stepped into the corridor. It was empty.
"Are they gone?" Joe asked.
"I'll bet the Reynards and Denise have gone home to sleep," whispered Frank.
"Yeah, they had a hard night's work," said Joe as they crept toward the exit.
"Funny, we've been up all night, and I don't even feel tired."
"There's nothing like the danger of death to keep you alert," replied Frank as
they reached the deserted reception area. He checked the front door. "We're in
luck. We can unlock it from the inside just by turning this knob."
It wasn't until they reached the Gare St. Lazare-the cavernous old railway
station for trains to Normandy, one of many that dotted the
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French capital--and were aboard the early-morning train for Bayeux, that Joe
was able to say, "I guess a little shut-eye wouldn't hurt now."
He leaned back in the upholstered seat and dozed off, watching the scenery
gradually change from urban to suburban and finally rural. Joe felt as if he'd
been asleep for not more than five minutes when he was shaken awake.
"Just a few more minutes," he groaned. "I don't have any classes until-" Then
he remembered where he was. "We're here already?"
"Yup," said Frank. "Now to find out where we go from here. We need a map."
They found a detailed one in a shop catering to tourists near the medieval
cathedral that dominated the town. The map showed the sites of notable
buildings in the area. Chateau
Reynard was one of them.
"It's marked in red," said Frank. "Let's see what that means." He studied the
map for a moment longer and said, "It means not open to visitors."
Frank and Joe went to the chateau, anyway. They rented bicycles, since there
was no chance of two wild-looking punks renting a car without ID. Even the
bike shop let them pedal away only after they left a deposit equal to the full
value of the bikes.
Under a broiling sun, sweat soaking their clothes, they biked for almost an
hour through gently rolling hills shaded by flowering apple
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trees and bright green pastures dotted with cows and horses. They traveled the
final two miles on a deserted, winding one-lane asphalt road that turned off
just past a crudely lettered wooden signpost reading, Ch. Reynard.
"Not open to visitors is putting it mildly," said Joe, staring at the stone
wall surrounding the estate. It was over ten feet high, and on its top, jagged
shards of broken glass embedded in concrete glinted in the sunlight. "I guess
this is what you call French hospitality."
"We'll have to figure out some way of getting over that wall," said Frank.
"Look, I know you like to make complicated plans and all, but why don't we try
something simple for a change?" suggested Joe.
 Like what?'"
"Like this." Joe walked up to the huge wooden door barring the entrance to the
chateau grounds and pulled a rope that set a bell clanging.
after a couple of minutes, the door swung open a crack The face of a very
large man peered out.
"Do you speak English?" asked Joe.
"A leetle," the man said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]