Terror at High Tide by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

we’ll have to. Though odds are the thief stole the hard copy of the manuscript from the shelves and deleted it from the computer. I don’t remember seeing any manuscripts in all that mess—just papers and files.”
    Joe chewed his lip as he thought. “What about the other suspects, Frank? Did Con tell you anything about them?”
    â€œThey’re just your typical hardworking tax-paying citizens—nothing special in their backgrounds, no police records. Scarlatti and Ferrier are under forty, so they’re too young to have been on the Ebony Pearl. There’s no obvious connection between them and the ship. But they’re still not off the hook—Mr. Geovanis’s disappearance may have nothing to do with the ship.”
    â€œLet’s head over to Cartwright’s,” Joe said. “We need to ask him a few more questions. But first give a call to Alicia—we have to borrow her Jeep.”
    â€œGood thinking,” Frank said, picking up the phone. “We’ve learned the hard way that mopeds are no match for a dune buggy.”
    Half an hour later Frank and Joe were in Alicia’s Jeep, heading toward Cartwright’s place in a thickening fog. The thunderstorms had finally blown out to sea, and the morning air was still and humid. The sky was a steel gray color, and blankets of mist shrouded the fields and sea.
    â€œThere’s not much chance the sun will burn this fog off,” Frank muttered, flicking on his headlights. “It’s too thick.”
    He turned left into Cartwright’s driveway, a narrow rutted road that ran between tangled masses of trees and vines. After driving about a quarter of a mile, Frank saw Cartwright’s enormous house rising up on a bluff overlooking the water.
    â€œWow,” Joe commented, taking in the houseand the Jaguar convertible pulled up by the front door. “Cartwright sure isn’t hurting for cash.”
    â€œIf Cartwright was in fact the ship’s purser,” Frank said, “then he would have been responsible for the passengers’ valuables. He could have stolen jewels and money from the safe before the ship went down.”
    â€œAnd lived off his ill-gotten gains ever since,” Joe said. “Using a new identity so no one would know.”
    â€œIt does make sense. By the way, Alicia doesn’t know why Cartwright’s missing part of his finger—I asked her this morning,” Frank said. He brought the Jeep to a stop next to the Jaguar. Then he and Joe climbed out and strode up to Cartwright’s front door. Frank used the brass door knocker, then the brothers waited impatiently for an answer.
    â€œSomeone has to be home—there’s a car here,” Joe pointed out.
    â€œBut no one’s coming to the door,” Frank said, peering through a window.
    â€œLet’s head over to those trees by the eastern edge of the cranberry bog,” Frank suggested. “The trees Bud couldn’t get to.”
    Frank and Joe hopped into the Jeep and drove back down the long driveway. After parking the Jeep on the side of the main road, they stepped out and jogged down a dirt road that cut alongthe eastern side of the bog. Soon a narrow patch of trees and brush appeared about twenty feet ahead on the left. The trees were dense, their leaves dripping with moisture in the fog.
    â€œI can’t see too far,” Joe said, “just the trees nearest me.” Glancing around, he caught a glimpse of something dark and square to his left. “Frank, come here,” he called. “I think I see a shed.”
    Joe heard a roaring noise, like someone revving the engine of a car. The sound was coming from a break in the trees. At that instant a blue dune buggy with a red lobster insignia zoomed out of the brush. A man wearing a black ski mask was at the wheel.
    â€œFrank,” Joe called, “look out!” His heart hammering, Joe raced for the Jeep, with