said.
The Hardys turned to find Chet Morton leaning against their van, his hands in his pockets. Their heavyset friend wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that hung askew from his open collar. He also had a huge grin at their surprised expressions.
"Chet, what are you doing here?" Joe asked. "And why are you dressed like that?"
More to the point, Frank asked, "And how did you know about this press conference?"
"Easy," said Chet, his grin growing. "I work here. The town internship program has me fetching and carrying for Mr. Corrigan, the head clerk."
"So you know all about the files," Frank said.
"First thing I had to learn," Chet agreed. "Mr. Corrigan told me I'd be his arms and legs. But he's a nice guy. That's why I'm out here. He asked me if I wanted a late-afternoon snack."
"Maybe he also wants you to be his stomach," Joe said, patting Chet on the shoulder. "You could make a career out of this."
"Hey, Chet," Frank cut in, "do you think you could get us in to wherever they keep the files on the Crowell Chemical disaster?"
"I suppose I could," Chet said. "If you made it worth my while."
"What's this?" Frank said. "You, almost a public official, asking for a bribe?"
Chet shrugged. "It's the way things get done around here. Mr. Corrigan has a picture up in his office of him and a pal, Howard Zale, down at Zale's retirement home in Florida. The place looks like something from TV—swimming pool, boat, the works. I guess either Zale never spent a penny he made as fire inspector, or people greased his palm. Now, I was thinking of maybe a pizza .. ."
; Joe grinned. "Now, that's a way to get a greasy palm."
Laughing, Chet pushed himself away from the van. "Come on, guys. It was worth a try."
He led them around the back of the building and pulled out a key and let them in through a steel door. "Don't make any noise," he whispered as he headed downstairs to the basement. "I don't want to get Corrigan on my case."
They headed along a dimly lit corridor, then turned into a large room. Row after row of metal shelves filled the space, and each shelf was filled with brown cardboard file boxes, coded with mysterious letters and numbers.
"This is some system," Frank muttered as he followed Chet. "I'm surprised it's not computerized though."
"The town keeps talking about it, but they don't like the cost of inputting all the data," Chet explained.
"I'm more impressed at how you know where the stuff is," said Joe.
"Oh, it's easier than it looks," Chet said, confidently leading them onward. He stopped at a shelf and pointed. "Right there."
The Hardys followed his finger to three empty spaces in the middle of the shelf.
"You wanted to know where the files were kept," Chet said with a grin. "Mr. Corrigan had me pull them this morning. That's what the press conference is about."
Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Well, I'm glad we didn't pay him the pizza first," Joe finally said.
"I guess if we want to hear anything about those files, we'll have to wait in line with the press people," Frank said.
"Sorry, guys," Chet said, heading back toward the door. "You know I'd like to help you out—and Denny, too, of course. I figure this must have something to do with what Denny was saying at the party. But Mr. Corrigan has all the papers in his office — "
He cut off in midsentence as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside.
"I don't like this one little bit," a whining voice complained.
"Corrigan," Chet whispered.
"You liked taking our money well enough, a rougher voice answered. "So did Zale." Frank and Joe looked at each other. They recognized the voice. It belonged to George, the guy who had greeted them at Crowell's mansion.
"That was back when Morrison was running the show," Corrigan said. "Zale had lots of pull with Jack. Now, though, they could hang us — " "Don't worry," George said. "You've got the substitute records. Soon, people can look through your records all they like. And all they'll
The Hardys turned to find Chet Morton leaning against their van, his hands in his pockets. Their heavyset friend wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that hung askew from his open collar. He also had a huge grin at their surprised expressions.
"Chet, what are you doing here?" Joe asked. "And why are you dressed like that?"
More to the point, Frank asked, "And how did you know about this press conference?"
"Easy," said Chet, his grin growing. "I work here. The town internship program has me fetching and carrying for Mr. Corrigan, the head clerk."
"So you know all about the files," Frank said.
"First thing I had to learn," Chet agreed. "Mr. Corrigan told me I'd be his arms and legs. But he's a nice guy. That's why I'm out here. He asked me if I wanted a late-afternoon snack."
"Maybe he also wants you to be his stomach," Joe said, patting Chet on the shoulder. "You could make a career out of this."
"Hey, Chet," Frank cut in, "do you think you could get us in to wherever they keep the files on the Crowell Chemical disaster?"
"I suppose I could," Chet said. "If you made it worth my while."
"What's this?" Frank said. "You, almost a public official, asking for a bribe?"
Chet shrugged. "It's the way things get done around here. Mr. Corrigan has a picture up in his office of him and a pal, Howard Zale, down at Zale's retirement home in Florida. The place looks like something from TV—swimming pool, boat, the works. I guess either Zale never spent a penny he made as fire inspector, or people greased his palm. Now, I was thinking of maybe a pizza .. ."
; Joe grinned. "Now, that's a way to get a greasy palm."
Laughing, Chet pushed himself away from the van. "Come on, guys. It was worth a try."
He led them around the back of the building and pulled out a key and let them in through a steel door. "Don't make any noise," he whispered as he headed downstairs to the basement. "I don't want to get Corrigan on my case."
They headed along a dimly lit corridor, then turned into a large room. Row after row of metal shelves filled the space, and each shelf was filled with brown cardboard file boxes, coded with mysterious letters and numbers.
"This is some system," Frank muttered as he followed Chet. "I'm surprised it's not computerized though."
"The town keeps talking about it, but they don't like the cost of inputting all the data," Chet explained.
"I'm more impressed at how you know where the stuff is," said Joe.
"Oh, it's easier than it looks," Chet said, confidently leading them onward. He stopped at a shelf and pointed. "Right there."
The Hardys followed his finger to three empty spaces in the middle of the shelf.
"You wanted to know where the files were kept," Chet said with a grin. "Mr. Corrigan had me pull them this morning. That's what the press conference is about."
Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Well, I'm glad we didn't pay him the pizza first," Joe finally said.
"I guess if we want to hear anything about those files, we'll have to wait in line with the press people," Frank said.
"Sorry, guys," Chet said, heading back toward the door. "You know I'd like to help you out—and Denny, too, of course. I figure this must have something to do with what Denny was saying at the party. But Mr. Corrigan has all the papers in his office — "
He cut off in midsentence as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside.
"I don't like this one little bit," a whining voice complained.
"Corrigan," Chet whispered.
"You liked taking our money well enough, a rougher voice answered. "So did Zale." Frank and Joe looked at each other. They recognized the voice. It belonged to George, the guy who had greeted them at Crowell's mansion.
"That was back when Morrison was running the show," Corrigan said. "Zale had lots of pull with Jack. Now, though, they could hang us — " "Don't worry," George said. "You've got the substitute records. Soon, people can look through your records all they like. And all they'll
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