The Crisscross Crime by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

I stayed in mine and hit the remote alarm at my desk.”
    â€œBut the guy got away,” Frank said.
    â€œOnly because of that false alarm across town at First City,” Sylvia replied. “If they hadn’t been chasing that down they would’ve caught the thief red-handed.”
    Joe lifted up some papers on the desk. There, under the pile, was a pair of crisp new hundred-dollar bills.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Sylvia said, jumping up from the chair. “I didn’t say you could dig through that stuff!”
    â€œYou always leave cash lying around?” Joe asked, holding up the two bills.
    Sylvia seemed relieved. “Oh, is that what you were looking at?” She snatched the bills fromJoe. “Those are the newest additions to my collection.”
    â€œCollection?”
    â€œYeah. Here, I’ll show you.” Sylvia opened a file drawer in the desk and removed three or four manila folders. The Hardys watched over her shoulder as she opened the folders, revealing stacks of crisp currency.
    â€œWow!” Joe exclaimed. “There must be thousands of dollars in there!”
    â€œNope, wrong answer,” Sylvia said, handing the Hardys each a fifty-dollar bill. “Care to guess again?”
    Frank rubbed the bill between his fingers. “Zero,” he said. His fingertips were smudged with green. “It’s worthless counterfeit.”
    â€œYou win!” Sylvia said, pointing at Frank.
    Joe held his bill up to the light. “Where’d you get these?”
    â€œThe bank, of course,” Sylvia said. “You’d be surprised how often customers come in with bad money.”
    â€œWhy would someone try to pass counterfeit bills at a bank?” Frank asked. “That seems pretty stupid.”
    â€œOh, most customers have no idea it’s fake,” Sylvia said. “Somebody passed it off on them and they bring it in to deposit into their accounts. They can get pretty sore when the tellers inform them they’ve been ripped off.”
    â€œThat’d be a bummer,” Joe said. “How’d you end up with it?”
    Sylvia blushed. “Technically, we’re supposed to send all counterfeit back to the Federal Reserve. Every now and then, though, I offer to buy the bills from the customer.”
    â€œSo you are breaking the law,” Joe said.
    Sylvia cringed. “I wish you wouldn’t tell anyone. If I didn’t buy these, the customer would get nothing. And besides, I figure all this counterfeit is safely out of circulation here with me.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Frank said. “We won’t tell, will we, Joe?”
    Joe dropped his bill back on the desk. “No, I guess not.”
    Frank picked up another hundred-dollar bill. The ink on this one didn’t bleed. “How can you tell if they’re no good?”
    â€œLot’s of ways.” Sylvia opened another folder. “Here’s a real hundred,” she said. “I keep it around for reference.” She held the bill out so Frank could see it. “First of all, the green ink is a special kind that doesn’t photocopy well.”
    â€œNo way! You mean some people make counterfeit bills by putting money in a copy machine?”
    â€œSure,” Sylvia said. “It’s actually illegal to photocopy currency unless you enlarge it at least one hundred and fifty percent.”
    â€œWild,” Frank said. “What else?”
    Joe tried to act as if he wasn’t interested, but found himself creeping closer to watch. “They make that ink in Switzerland,” he said, remembering his phone conversation with his father.
    â€œThat’s right!” Sylvia said. “I’m impressed.”
    â€œI know a few things,” Joe said.
    â€œHow about this?” Sylvia asked. She tilted the bill in the light. The number “100” in the lower right-hand corner shifted from green to