F. W. Dixon

Steve and Les stared at each other across the cardboard box that served as a desk in the Alliterates clubhouse.

“Man,” Steve said. “When I proposed that we let Franklin W. Dixon join the club, I didn’t think he’d be so hard to track down.”

“Me neither,” Lester said. “He’s been working for seventy-five years, he’s written over three hundred Hardy Boys novels. Who’d ever have thought that he’d be so difficult to locate? I can’t believe that we couldn’t find his address when we searched that Internet database.”

Steve rubbed his blond head. “Me neither. And I thought we had him for sure, when our operative in New York City turned up that address on the invoice at Dixon’s publisher’s office.”

“Yeah, you think that a guy’d have his pay sent to his place of residence,” Les said.

“What threw me,” Steve said, “was the name on the paycheck. The check didn’t read ‘To F. W. Dixon’—it was made out to a completely different name.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a writer’s used a pseudonym,” Les said. “But when we went to the place, the guy at the apartment claimed Dixon didn’t live there.”

“I know,” Steve said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “It’s a real puzzler.”

“And a real waste of plane fare,” Les said. “Do you know how many computer games we could have bought for the cost of a ticket to New York City?”

Steve nodded grimly.

Just then, the portable phone rang. Les picked it up and held it so both of them could hear. It was Jerry. He wasn’t a member of the club, but the Alliterates worked with him on occasion. He was their New York operative. “I must have made a mistake, guys,” Jerry said. “I got back into the publisher’s office to check on that address. I thought maybe Dixon had moved since they cut the last paycheck.”

“A good idea,” Les said. “How’d it pan out?”

“Pretty good, I guess. I turned up another address for this month’s Hardys’ book. The thing is, though, there’s a new name on the invoice as well.”

Steve snapped his fingers. “That makes sense! Dixon isn’t using just one alias, he’s using a series of them!”

“He must be a real recluse,” Les said. “What’s the new address?”

“I’m faxing it to you now.”

“I’ll run into the house and get it,” Steve said. He climbed down the ladder from the treehouse, and went inside. A minute later he returned with a sheet of fax paper. He showed it to Les.

“This address is in Wisconsin,” Les said, unfurling the paper as he read. “It’s not too far from here.”

“Thanks, Jerry,” Steve said. “We’ll check this out right away.”

He hung up the phone and he and Les scampered down the ladder and ran across the yard to their bicycles. An hour later, they pulled up in front of the new address. They parked the bikes on the edge of the road and walked up to the door. There was no bell, so Les rapped loudly with his knuckles.

“Can I help you boys?” asked the man who answered the door. He was a balding, middle-aged man with wire-rim glasses and a short beard. The beard was turning gray in places and the man’s stomach suffered from a touch of middle-age spread. The legend on his shirt read, “Town Spa Pizza.”

“We’re looking for Franklin W. Dixon,” Lester said.

“We want to invite him to join our club, the Alliterates,” Steve added.

The man shook his head. “Sorry, guys. I’ve heard of F. W. Dixon—who hasn’t?—but I’ve never seen him.”

“He doesn’t live here?” Steve asked, crestfallen.

“Sorry,” the man said. “Good luck finding him.” He shut the door.

Les and Steve walked down the walkway to where they’d left their bikes. Lester rubbed his chin.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “If those were the addresses on the invoices, how come Dixon’s not at either place?”

“Maybe he’s even more of a recluse than we thought,” Steve suggested, “doesn’t want anyone to find him.”

“You mean like people who use multiple identities on the Internet,” Les said, “changing who they are every couple of days.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s it.”

“Makes sense,” Les agreed. “So what do we do now?”

Steve let out a long sigh. “Man, if we’re going to have to work this hard to induct the guy, maybe it’s just not worth it,” he said.

“I have an idea,” Les said. “Let’s put his name up on our Web site. Then, if he sees it, he can drop by the clubhouse and pick up his membership card.”

Steve nodded. “Good idea,” he said.

“Okay,” Les said. “I’ll write the HTML code and post the page by morning.”

The two Alliterates pushed up their kickstands and headed for home.