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that stretched forty floors into the sky.
    The car pulled into the circular driveway of a huge glass-and-steel building with fountains lit up in front. Brad led Frank into the mirrored elevator. A uniformed elevator operator brought them up to a floor labeled "PH."
    "That stands for penthouse—forty-seventh floor," Brad said. "Hope you're not afraid of heights."
    They took a left out of the elevator. At the end of the hall, a woman in an apron called out, "Hello, boys!" A spicy, welcoming smell followed her through the open door to greet them.
    "Hi," Brad said, sniffing the air. "What's cooking?"
    "Aren't you going to introduce your friend, Bradley?"
    Frank smiled and stuck out his hand. "Hello, Mrs. Rogers. I'm Frank Hardy."
    The woman looked blank and Brad guffawed. "Frank, this is Amelia — she's our cook. Come on, I'll introduce you to the folks."
    Just then a tall, silver-haired man in a navy-blue blazer appeared in the front hallway. Next to him was a trim, elegantly dressed woman. "Ah, boys, you're here! Marvelous!" he said. "Hello, Frank, I'm Malcolm Rogers, and this is Brad' s stepmother, Joan "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Frank said.
    "Likewise," Mrs. Rogers said. "Do come in and make yourself at home."
    Home was the last place this looked like, Frank thought. More like a museum. The walls were covered with huge framed oil paintings, each one separately lit. Porcelain vases flanked the sofa, and a collection of antique figurines was displayed in a specially designed cabinet.
    In a few minutes they all sat down to eat in the Rogerses' dining room, which had an incredible view of the river.
    "I hear you're from Deep River, Montana, Frank," Mr. Rogers said after they had finished their crabmeat mousse.
    "Born and raised there," Frank said as Amelia served their salad course.
    "We have family in Snapoose, you know."
    "Uh-huh. That's what Brad says."
    "Yes. Tell me, is your family the Kenyons who own the livery stable?" Mr. Rogers asked.
    "Uh, right! That's us!" Frank said and smiled.
    During the main course of swordfish, the conversation moved on to school and what Frank planned to do when he graduated.
    "So, what do you do, Mr. Rogers? For a living, I mean," Frank asked later.
    Mr. Rogers chuckled. "Oh, not much of anything. Consultant to a few small companies, board member of a couple of banks. You know, Clairmont Bank, Bayport Bank and Trust — "
    This wasn't something Frank expected to hear. "No kidding! I just opened my first checking account there—in the Bayport Bank. Do you think it's a good bank?"
    "Why, yes, of course," Mr. Rogers answered.
    "Safe? Up-to-date?" Frank went on questioning Mr. Rogers, watching for his reaction. "I understand they have a top-notch computer system."
    "They do. It's the best," Mr. Rogers said, clipping his words. Then he abruptly raised his voice slightly and spoke toward the kitchen, "Amelia! We're ready for dessert now!"
    He knows something. I can tell by the way he's acting, Frank thought. He excused himself from the table and looked at Brad. Brad pointed down the hall where the bathroom was.
    On his way, Frank passed by Mr. Rogers's study. Piles of papers littered the desk. On some of them, he could see the words "Bayport Bank and Trust." Looking up and down the empty hallway first, he slipped inside the room.
    Quickly and quietly, Frank riffled through a stack of computer printouts, looking for clues. But the columns of numbers just looked like gibberish. Finally he saw something at the bottom of the pile that caught his eye — a letter from Mr. Trilby, dated the day before. He pulled it out.
    And, instantly, was aware of someone breathing behind him.
    Frank spun around to see Oscar, the chauffeur, standing in the doorway. In his hand was a gun.

Chapter 7
    FRANK DROPPED DOWN behind-the desk. "Don't shoot! I'm Frank, a friend of the family!"
    Oscar looked at him closely in the dimly lit room and put his gun down. "So you are," he said. "Terribly sorry, Frank, I