In the dark entranceway of "Earl's" on 133rd St. a man stood erect and unmoving as an Egyptian statue. The whites of his eyes, set deep in his face, were bright as empty shells on a beach. He glowered down at the Hardy boys.

"It's all right, they're with me, Montgomery," Mr. Charles said nonchalantly. He led his companions past the silent doorman.

"We are minors, you know," said Frank in a whisper.

"Yes, how inconvenient. But these clubs pay the boys in blue a good weekly allowance to turn a blind eye to such minor infractions." Then, reacting to the expression on Frank's face, he continued, "I'm sure such things don't go on in Bayport but this is the big city. And why shouldn't the local cops get a tip? Waitresses who aren't even pretty get extravagant tips from hopeful drunks all the time. It's a good thing for society to have little matters kept out of the justice system, don't you think, boys? It would only clog up the courts."

There were small lamps with shades on the tables. Colored theatrical lights illuminated a piano, a drum kit, microphones, and a bass on the stage. As dark as the interior was, Frank could tell that the club had seen more prosperous days. He imagined the round tables once had white tablecloths but were now bare. Everything had a worn and tired look. The hardwood floor was dull and stained. Frank could have sworn there were dents in the plaster walls, maybe from glasses, or bottles, or patrons' skulls being thrown against them.

"I'll have a scotch and soda," Mr. Charles ordered. He lit a cigarette. He used a slender, gold-plated lighter that made a heavy, metallic sound when it snapped shut that was strangely satisfying.

"Just healthy water for us," said Joe with a chuckle.

"This was never a glamorous sort of club but it used to attract a bigger, and richer clientele," explained Mr. Charles. "Back in the 'Twenties people came to Harlem looking for the 'Jazz Age' they had all read about in magazines. With the Depression the business dried up. This place hangs on because people come here for the music. Manhattan sophisticates like me, well, like my friends and associates, flock to places with brighter lights, glitzy floor shows, a chance to see and be seen."

"That's all very interesting, Mr. Charles," said Frank, "but you haven't explained a very important point. How did you know we were looking for Olivia Simmons?"

Mr. Charles took a deep breath. "Let's say that an organization I'm associated with has very deep file cabinets and no great willingness to toss out old files. They have what might be called a righteous zeal about their appointed mission. Mr. Heinze came to their attention when the controversy broke out over his scholarship. They were interested in the case but it was hushed up by the scholarship foundation and the university. Then recently Mr. Heinze came back into the news with his visit to the States. Given his sensitive position and the troubled state of the world, you can understand that they take a keen interest in Mr. Heinze."

"Then I'm right in thinking that you're helping the F.B.I.?" queried Frank.

"Drink your water, son."

Joe noticed that at the other tables some people were still dining. Fewer than half the tables were occupied. It was a predominantly white crowd. The Hardy boys had a table next to one side of the horseshoe-shaped stage. No one paid much attention to Joe and his brother. It was not uncommon for college boys to visit obscure Harlem clubs in search of worthwhile music. Not everyone was satisfied with the steady diet of Bing Crosby hits on the radio.

Circles of white light fell on the stage. Four male musicians stepped out from the stage wings and found their places with their instruments. A woman strode onto the stage. Her satin dress was such an intense blue that Joe could imagine that it radiated blue even in the dark. It exposed her smooth, light brown shoulders. Her wavy hair was built up high. She pivoted to look around at her audience, smiling brightly. She called out, "Good evening" to all the corners of the room before launching into song. Clearly, Joe thought, she was experienced on stage and comfortable with her audience. Joe didn't have the right vocabulary to describe the vocalist musically but he liked what he heard. He was used to sweet-voiced young songbirds who sang pop songs in a straightforward manner. Olivia Simmons may have been like that at one time but now she had a strong, mature voice, and she made the songs her own expression. Joe had heard some of the tunes before. He expected they were standards. The audience acted as though they were familiar with her. They applauded and gave her words of encouragement between numbers. Some called out her name. Her large eyes surveyed the crowd as she said, "Thank you" and acknowledged the applause. She was smiling broadly now. Clouds of tobacco smoke drifted from the tables into the white cones of light on stage.

On all the songs the band members took solo turns. Joe was struck by the little trumpet player. When he snapped his fingers to the time his whole arm joined in. It looked as if he might drop his horn and start dancing. His face was glistening with perspiration. When he finished his solos his eyes drifted over to Olivia. The bass player was a big man with a smiling, genial face. The piano player bent over his keyboard. He had a detached air, apparently paying no attention to his band mates or the audience, as if he were playing a recital in a concert hall somewhere. He was the only white member of the band.

As the set was winding down a man in a navy blue overcoat entered. The waiter showed him to a table in a dark corner of the room. It was Heinze. "Is he a romantic fool or what?" sputtered Mr. Charles. "He's supposed to be dead!" Olivia did not show any emotion but she whispered to her band and, after a few seconds, they launched into "Stardust" by Hoagy Carmichael.

She sang:

Now the little stars, the little stars pine
Always reminding me that we're apart
You wander down the lane and far away
Leaving me a love that cannot die
Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by.

Joe wondered what that was about. Was it a dig at Heinze?

Mr. Charles ate the maraschino cherry of his Manhattan, his third drink, and went over to see Heinze. The German engineer accompanied him back to the Hardys' table. He had the same grin as the boys remembered, but they imagined that it was a little embarrassed and awkward now.

"I hope you have a good plan from this point on," said Frank solemnly.

"Any good engineer will tell you that sometimes, after all the calculations are done, you have to make choices by instinct."

"You know you haven't bought yourself much time. They're going to be closing in on you very shortly."

"Yes, I know. I must speak with the American authorities. I am not asking for very much. If I could hand over my information and walk away and disappear into your vast land, I would. But I feel I must stay in control of my ideas. I cannot abandon them. I could not pass a day without thinking of them."

"The documents that you have," said Mr. Charles, "they are not safe in your possession. They must be passed on to someone else in case something happens to you. At least they would get into the right hands."

"Yes, I have thought of that," replied Heinze noncommittally.

Heinze changed the subject. "You know, I trust these boys because they were introduced to me by my old friend Dr. Coville. But I don't know you. If you are a spy you have a very convincing cover. I think, no, you must be a representative of other interests. Do you care to tell us?" Heinze's dark eyes looked over Charles shrewdly.

"Ah, you can't quite place me. I drink too much for the good of my health and far too much to be an F.B.I. agent. Consider me a friend."

"I have exposed myself here, foolishly, as you think. Thus I cannot have any objection if you spot me. It is too late to avoid you and I don't think you would be easy to dispose of." Heinze shrugged and his grin returned.