Joe donned the oldest, most discreet clothes he could find. He wore the shapeless news boy cap, and even smudged his face with dirt, which made Frank laugh. Joe threw a cummerbund at his head to even things out.
"Don't mess up the mustache!" Frank yelped. He grabbed the cummerbund and secured it around his waist. "We should have planned better," he said thoughtfully. "This collar needs to be pressed."
Joe looked at his brother, his mouth open in disbelief. "You're going into the lions' den, and you're worried about your collar?"
Frank finished tying his bow tie. "I'm worried about many things. The collar happens to be the most prevalent at the moment."
Joe rolled his eyes, and finished tying some old work boots. "The collar's fine," He said in a surly tone.
They were saved from any further discussion by the reappearance of the girls at the door. Or rather- an elegant lady and a scrubby young boy.
"Whoa." Both Hardy Boys said simultaneously. Callie was wearing a stunning midnight blue gown. She had a matching silky wrap and long evening gloves. Her hair was pulled up for once, making her look older. That- coupled with the heavy makeup in line with the latest fashions- she wouldn't be out of place at any party or palace.
Iola wore baggy trousers and an even baggier jacket. She was wearing the strange beret she had taken from the costume room, and had tucked her hair into it. She too had rubbed dirt on her face, so from a distance, it was quite hard to tell she was a girl. She wouldn't be too out of place at any dock or dump
She stuck a large cigarette-looking object in her mouth, and said loudly- "What ho, gov'nas! Looks to be we've got a right spot of mystery 'ere!"
"Iola!" Joe said exasperated, "Why are you Cockney?"
She snorted with laughter, "Okay, okay, no accents. I promise!"
"Is that a stick?" Frank asked, gesturing to the little cylinder hanging from her mouth.
"No, no," she joked. "This is a bonafide Cuban cigar!"
"It's a stick." Callie assured him. "She'll spit it out when she gets outside."
"Alright," Joe declared, giving his arm to Iola, "Shall we go sneak around the seediest part of town on the lookout for villains and criminals?"
She smiled brightly, the dirt on her face failing to hide her freckles. "Sounds fun!"
Arm in arm they headed out into the night, and Frank and Callie were left alone.
"You look very nice," Frank said awkwardly. "Did you just have that dress lying around?"
Callie smoothed down the thin layers of tulle. "It's my Aunt's. She's in Europe with my Uncle, so she won't notice I used it."
Frank draped a scarf around his neck, and grabbed a top hat. "Well, I think we're ready for our own investigation.
Callie frowned at the top hat. "Is that the nicest top hat they had?"
Frank examined it. "Is it no good?"
She nodded adamantly. "It's worn. The tuxedo is nice and fits you well, but the hat messes up the whole look."
"And I can't just distract people with my mustache?"
She laughed. "Don't worry, my uncle has many hats. One more run by my house won't hurt anything."
"Your cousins won't ask why you're going out with a creepy old man?"
"Oh, they certainly would, but they've gone out for the night. They're hitting a speakeasy tonight."
"Not the Oriental Rose, right?"
"No, not the Oriental Rose," She assured him as she made her way to the door. Frank followed her out the door.
The night was cool for summer, and Callie wrapped her shrug more tightly around her. They walked a few short minutes to the blue house, and Callie ushered him inside. The house was silent, and Callie rushed up the stairs, assuring him she wouldn't be long.
Alone in the front foyer and without the scrutiny of a sullen cousin, Frank had the opportunity to more closely study the house.
Callie's family was clearly well off. The house and its furnishings were large and elegant. There was a large family portrait on the wall above a sideboard. Callie's Uncle and Aunt were stately looking people. Callie shared her aunt's hair and eyes. Her cousins looked more like their father- dark hair and dark eyes. The family was gathered close and finely dressed. It seemed like a happy family.
Scowling, Frank thought of the way Callie's cousin had treated her. Clearly, looks could be deceiving.
"Here's one!" Callie said from the stairs, maneuvering the end of her skirt so as not to trip. She was holding an elegant silk top hat. "This one will be perfect."
She gave it to him at the bottom of the stairs. Frank put it on, then smoothed his mustache, which was itching more than he cared to admit.
"Are we ready?" He asked her.
"Yes, I think so. However, I was thinking, we should drive. If we want an air of elegance, it wouldn't do to arrive by trolley."
He furrowed his brow, and said with embarrassment. "I don't actually know how to drive. Our family has only had a car for a few months, and my parents haven't gotten around to teaching me."
Callie smiled mischievously. "I suppose I should have clarified. I think I should drive. Come on."
She led him through the silent parlor, the spacious kitchen, and out the back door. The moon illuminated the backyard and the little stone walkway to an old carriage house.
Callie lightly stepped her way across the cobblestones, and unlatched the large doors. Swinging them open, she stepped into the darkness.
Frank followed her tentatively, not knowing the terrain as well as she did. When she switched on the electric light, Frank stopped in his tracks.
There in the carriage house was the finest car Frank had ever seen. It was a glistening white color with long, elegant lines. The cab was convertible, and had two rows of fine leather seating. Though unfamiliar with most things automotive, Frank knew enough to let out a breathless "Whoa" when he saw it.
Callie grinned at him proudly. "What do you think? Will this get us there in style?"
"This is your uncle's car?" Frank asked incredulously. "And you're allowed to drive it?"
She shrugged. "I've never been told not to drive it."
Frank walked to the side of the car to open the driver's door for her. "You are a very surprising person, Miss Shaw."
She primly entered the vehicle. "You're very kind, Mr. Hardy."
Frank circled the vehicle with a little skip in his step. He seemed to forget for a moment the case, his father's disappearance, and the ridiculous mustache plastered to his face. He was going to an elegant locale in company with a beautiful woman. He eagerly took his place next to her in the car.
Callie drove confidently and gracefully. Those two qualities seemed part of her very essence.
The night was glittering- even for a Tuesday, which Frank thought strange. However, Bayport was no stranger to the glitz and glamor of the modern age. Away from the quiet suburbs, downtown was ablaze with a festive summer attitude that stormed through the hearts of its inhabitants.
They arrived at the hotel in short order. A valet stepped forward and opened Callie's door. She thanked the man with a dazzling smile, he gave her a ticket, and Frank got out on the other side and went to meet her.
Wilson's note stated that the speakeasy was at the corner of 4th and 6th. The hotel was along 6th avenue, so the entrance to the speakeasy should be just around the corner.
They casually made their way there, arm in arm. As they rounded the corner of the hotel, they could not mistake the muffled sounds of jazz music from inside the building.
"I guess we're getting close," Callie said nervously.
Frank squeezed her arm reassuringly. "It will be okay. We'll just get in there, find the informant, ask some questions, maybe even have some fun."
They rounded the alleyway and approached a completely unassuming door. It was clearly well used- it was clean and devoid of spiderwebs, unlike the rest of the alleyway. A small hatch was placed in the middle of the door. Frank knocked confidently.
The hatch slid open, revealing a pair of bloodshot looking eyes.
"Password?" the voice asked lazily.
"Scheherazade," Frank responded, assuming an air of nonchalance.
Wordlessly the hatch closed and the door opened. A paunchy looking man in a suit ushered them inside a small room. There was a beefier looking man shuffling a deck of cards at a table in the corner, but he was the only other occupant. A fancy Persian rug stretch from the entrance to another, much more ornate door.
The round man gestured them across the room with a wave of his hand and a bow. "Right this way.:
Callie did not even glance at either man- playing the role of haughty socialite well. Frank slipped a bill into the paunchy man's hand. A generous tip certainly couldn't hurt their façade.
They entered the ornate door, and were immediately transported into a glittering world of finery.
The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, which gave both of them considerable pause as they tried to adjust their breathing to block the stench. The place was "Oriental" themed, which at that time meant the use of decor anywhere from Egypt to China, India to Russia.
The Oriental Rose looked to be mostly inspired by Persian style. There were intricate lamps hanging from the ceiling, vibrant tapestries around the walls, and even stuffed zebra heads- though their presence wasn't exactly 'on brand.'
There was a stage where a jazz band was in full swing along with a scantily dressed singer, with a crowded dance floor directly in front of it. Tables lined the walls and waiters meandered their way through serving alcohol liberally.
The crowd was loud and raucous and the atmosphere was electric.
A coat man took their hats and wraps. A waiter led them to a table, and no one gave them a second glance.
"What are you drinking tonight?" The waiter asked.
Frank swallowed hard. This was a question he should have anticipated. What alcohol would a reasonably wealthy person order? They had to order something, if just to blend in.
Callie saved him. "What would you recommend?" she asked the waiter warmly.
The man seemed to simper before Callie's beauty. "We just got a shipment of perfectly divine scotch. It makes a Rob Roy that's to die for. Or perhaps, if you crave something sweeter, a Mary Pickford cocktail? Why, you could be her twin!" he exclaimed suggestively to Callie.
Callie replied, "Why, thank you," though she was clearly uncomfortable at his tone.
Frank growled, "We'll take the Rob Roy and the Mary Pickford, thank you."
The waiter retreated almost immediately, quailed by the warning in Frank's eyes and the power of his mustache.
When they were alone (as alone as two could be in a crowded hall), they breathed a little easier.
Callie grinned in relief. "I don't know why I thought it'd be more difficult to get into this place."
Frank pushed his mustache down. "Our disguises seem to be doing their job well."
"How are we going to find the informant?" Callie asked quietly.
"I'm not sure. Her name is Silver Dorado, so Joe and I figured she must be a performer here."
The upbeat song ended and everyone clapped for the band. The singer curtsied with a flourish- her tasseled fringe sleeves (could they be defined as sleeves?) dragged along the ground. A male singer replaced her, and the band struck up a jazzy rendition of "In my Harem.".
The crowd began dancing the Charleston and the Shimmy. Frank and Callie blushed furiously at the lyrics. Frank probably would have laughed at the song if Joe were around, but Callie being there just made him ashamed. She was a lady, and the music made it evident that this was no place for a lady.
"Shall I go ask some of the staff if they know Silver Dorado?" Callie asked, gently stirring her drink, though she gave no indication of drinking.
"I can do it." Frank offered.
"Nah," Callie waved her hand nonchalantly. "They might be wary if they think some random man is trying to talk to her. Might give the wrong idea?"
"Okay," Frank said lamely. "Hey, I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I know this isn't exactly your scene."
She smiled at him as she stood, and his heart leapt. "I have a feeling this isn't your scene either. Tell you what, next time we go out, you can just take me dancing at a more respectable place."
Frank could have kissed her. She still wanted to go out with him?
She watched the mayor of Bayport walk down the line of tables. "Though," she noted with disgust, "clearly respectability is relative."
He nodded vehemently. "I promise, no more speakeasies from here on out."
"See if you can find a potted plant to dump those in," she almost whispered, gesturing to the cocktails on the table.
She turned and made her way through the crowd.
Oh dear. Frank had it bad for her. She was just so classy, and she seemed to know exactly who she was and what her standards were. He knew some people at school would label her as a goody-two-shoes. But those people had called Frank and Joe the same thing. So, in Frank's eyes, Callie was good as gold.
He noted the people at the table next to him were leaving. He made a quick scan to ensure no one was watching, then he quickly poured most of their drinks into two of the many glasses left at the now vacant table.
He casually surveyed the room, noting the great variety of people there. He even recognized a few people who were high school seniors when he was freshman. Luckily they seemed very tipsy, and would likely not recognize him.
In a few minutes, Callie returned and sat back at the table. "I met her. She's actually quite young, and seems… nice. She has a set after this fellow is done, but then she says she can talk to us."
"How long is a set?"
Callie glanced at the crooner on the stage. "Ten minutes or so. So, we just have to kill twenty minutes before we can talk to her."
"Do you want to stay here pretending to drink, or would you like to dance?"
"Do you know how to dance?"
Frank scoffed. "Of course." He stood and offered her his hand.
Callie got a mischievous glint in her eyes. Taking his hand, she said, "You're a very surprising person, Mr. Hardy."
His grin almost upset his fake mustache. "Why thank you, Miss Shaw."
Frank led Callie to a corner of the dance floor that was less crowded, and they tried to ignore the words of the songs- focusing instead on the fun rhythm. Frank held Callie close and they stepped to the beat of the music.
Dancing with her was delightful. Her hand seemed to fit perfectly in his, and she was an excellent dancer. At least, she was to him. At this point, she could probably step on his feet and he'd still praise her as the best dancer he'd ever known. As the song changed to a slow love ballad, he dared to hold her even closer, as their steps matched the pace of the music.
To his delight she leaned into him, and the world seemed to still. Perfection was a flighty creature, but Frank caught it in his arms, that moment under the Persian lights.
Rather than "killing" 20 minutes, Frank and Callie spent it joyfully. All too soon the male singer was replaced by Silver Dorado, and she sang as elegantly as her name. Frank and Callie continued to dance- sometimes a foxtrot, sometimes a charleston. However, when Silver's last song proved to be a scandalous tango, Frank and Callie breathlessly excused themselves from the dance floor. After all, they had their limits.
The waiter had brought them new cocktails, which Callie wrinkled her nose at.
"Do you think they'd balk if I asked for a glass of water?" she asked, fanning her face with a gloved hand.
Frank wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "We better not risk it, I'm afraid."
They spent the song recovering. When Silver Dorado was done, the club clapped, shouted, and whistled her praise. The MC went to the microphone and announced, "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. We welcome you tonight to the Oriental Rose!"
There was another burst of applause.
"We're going to give our band a ten minute break, so please feel free to order refreshment and rest up for our next batch of singers!"
Applause again. Frank looked around for Silver Dorado.
"And a reminder, here we have our very own cocktail, the Oriental Rose! This drink…"
The man continued to talk, but Frank and Callie tuned him out. There was a visitor to their table.
Silver Dorado- with jet black hair and ebony skin- fairly draped herself on a chair next to Frank. Her hair was very short and her make-up was alarming. She was certainly what Aunt Gertrude would call "a brazen hussy," but that was only because of her loose fitting dress and blood red nails. Frank didn't know what to make of her.
"You want to talk to me?" She asked in a low, sultry tone. She looked Frank up and down. "What can I do for you?"
She had paused between "I" and "do." Frank scooted ever so slightly away from her.
"We'd like to talk to you about Shayne Wilson."
"Wilson?" Her voice had risen to a normal level. "So this is a business chat." She said in disappointment.
Frank nodded adamantly. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"
She folded her arms and leaned back. "Listen, guy. I ain't talking without incentive."
Frank tried not to roll his eyes as he took out his wallet. He placed a bill on the table.
Her eyebrow raised.
He laid another one.
And another.
She finally snatched the small pile with a satisfied smirk.
"Alright," Frank said impatiently. "What can you tell us about Shayne Wilson?"
She grabbed the drink in front of Callie and downed it. "Alright, here's what I know."