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curly-haired man of about forty called to the officer. He wore an overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape and was standing beside the patrol car. "When I passed here on my evening stroll, I was certain I spotted someone breaking in."
    A second campus cop, older and fatter, remained beside the man in the overcoat. "That was something, seeing him on a foggy night like this, Dr. Winter."
    Joe allowed the slim policeman to frisk him. "Sure, there was a burglar," he told the patrolman. "I was chasing him when you showed up."
    "No use wasting your story on me, son. Save it for the real police," he advised, straightening up. "They'll be here any minute to take you in."
    "But it's the other guy you want."
    "Nobody came out of that building but you."
    "Okay, he may have slipped out just before you drove up. Or maybe you're covering for him."
    "I wouldn't say something like that." The night stick snapped into the patrolman's palm. "You see, I have something of a temper."
    "Joe? What's going on?" Frank and Jenny stepped out of the lab building.
    "I found a guy inside, nosing around," Joe told his brother. "I tried to tag him. But these gentlemen have the crazy idea that I'm a burglar."
    "Hold it right there," the patrolman warned Frank and the girl. "Just nice and easy, lock your hands on your heads and walk over to me."
    "Honestly, Harry," said Jenny. "There's no need for all this storm trooper stuff. I can explain exactly what we're doing here."
    "Miss Bookman? Sorry, I didn't recognize you," the policeman apologized.
    "Bookman?" Frank looked over at Joe. "Looks like we've been had."
    "That explains why she hid the photograph in the office — it was of her and her father," said Joe. "I should have known."
    "Look, it was the only way I could talk to you," Jenny said. "I had to find out what you knew about my father's murder. I'm sorry I lied, but I hope you understand why I had to do it."
    "A little late for sorry." Joe turned away.
    The sergeant's name was Hershfield. He was thickset and graying. As he sat behind his battered desk, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, which rested on the only clean spot on his blotter. "Maybe you lads are wondering why you're talking to homicide," he said to Frank and Joe.
    "No, it makes sense from your point of view," answered Frank, who sat in a straightback chair facing the sergeant. He and Joe had gone downtown. Jenny had gone home. "You and Detective Baylor are investigating the Bookman murder."
    Detective Baylor was black, younger, taller and slimmer than his partner. "You sound like it doesn't make sense from your point of view."
    Frank glanced over at him. "You believe our father did the killing. We don't."
    "He did it." Hershfield plucked a dead cigar out of a green glass ashtray and stuck it in his mouth, leaving it unlit.
    "He was only here because President Fawcette hired him," Joe said.
    "We've talked to Dr. Fawcette," said Baylor.
    "He's of the opinion that both you lads are looney," added Hershfield.
    Frank said, "We'd have to be crazy, Sergeant, to make up the story we've been telling you."
    "Meaning your story is so goofy it must be true?" Hershfield bit at the dead cigar, frowned, then put it back in the ashtray.
    "Look," said Joe, "We know our dad. You say he killed somebody. Now that's goofy."
    "I've known a lot of private eyes over the years," said the sergeant. "Used to be they were little toads who peeked through keyholes. Now they're all button-down types who specialize in industrial spying. It doesn't surprise me that a private detective could be hired as a killer—in spite of a phony reputation."
    "Not our father," said Frank, catching Joe and straight-arming him before he could jump up from his chair.
    Baylor said, "I know how you feel. But we have witnesses who swear they saw Fenton Hardy prop Professor Bookman in the seat of his car and then shove that car over a hill."
    Joe Hardy's jaws clenched. "We'd like to talk to those witnesses."
    "So you can