High-Speed Showdown by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

replied.
    â€œSomebody took it from his room this morning,” Joe said.
    â€œGreat!” Angelo said. “But if you clowns think you can pin it on me, you can take a long hike on a short pier.” He turned and walked away.
    â€œWe’re wasting our time with this guy,” Frank muttered, turning his back to Angelo. “Let’s go back to the inn. I’d like to find out if anybody saw him hanging around there earlier today.”
    They left the marina and made their way through the crowds to the inn. As they started up the walk, Joe noticed that a painter had set up her easel on the hill overlooking the inn and the harbor. How long had she been there?
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Joe murmured to Frank. He crossed the lawn and climbed the slope in long, impatient strides.
    The painter was in her twenties, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a light-colored, paint-stained smock. She gave Joe a cautious glance as he approached, then concentrated on her canvas. Joe looked over her shoulder. The bright colors were applied in wide, strong brush strokes, but he could recognize the harbor, the crowds, and the corner of the inn veranda.
    â€œEr, excuse me,” Joe said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but have you been up here for long?”
    She glanced over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?” she replied.
    â€œThere was a burglary at the inn this morning,” Joe explained. “Supposedly, the crook got into the room from the veranda roof. Since you’ve got a good view of it from up here . . . ”
    The painter frowned in concentration. “I got here about eight,” she said at last. “And I’ve beenhere all the time since then. I’m sure I would have noticed if anybody had climbed on the porch roof, and I didn’t see anybody.”
    â€œThanks,” Joe said. “That’s a big help.”
    He dashed down the slope to rejoin Frank and quickly explained what he had learned.
    â€œJust as we thought,” Frank said, nodding. “It was an inside job. The open window was to make us believe that the burglar came from outside.”
    Joe had a sudden thought. “Could Barry have done it himself? Hidden the medallion, then arranged for us to find out about the theft?”
    â€œOf course he could have,” Frank replied. “Nothing easier. But why?”
    â€œUh . . . I have no idea,” Joe admitted.
    â€œWhen we went upstairs with him and he unlocked his door, how many times did he turn the key?” Frank asked.
    Joe stared off toward the water as he tried to recall. “Hmm . . . I think he just put it in and gave it a half turn. I don’t remember hearing a click.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought, too,” Frank said. “Which means that he didn’t have the dead bolt on, just the spring latch. Come on—I’d like another look at that door.”
    As they entered the lobby, Joe noticed a crowd clustered around the television set in the far corner of the room. He nudged Frank, and they went over to find out what was going on.
    On the screen, Barry was being interviewed byPeter Singer, the cohost of “Sporting America.” Barry’s boat and Bayport harbor were in the background. Singer was asking, “What does this loss mean to you, Barry?”
    â€œIt means I’m finished with powerboat racing,” Barry replied.
    The gasps from the watchers covered his next few words.
    â€œÂ . . . my ancestor’s medallion,” Joe heard. “It’s not that I’m superstitious. It’s a question of family pride and family tradition. When I wore that medallion in a race, I felt I stood for something more than myself. Without it . . . well, it just wouldn’t be the same, that’s all.”
    â€œDo the police have any leads?” the interviewer asked.
    Barry shrugged. “I haven’t been to the police,”