Free The Apeman's Secret by Franklin W. Dixon

a few questions?”
    â€œI’ve already answered a few questions, buddy,” Olafsen grumbled. “Some private eye called me up last night and then barged around in person, asking me a lot of questions about where I was at such and such a time and a lot more baloney. Well, from now on I’ve got nothing more to say. What I do in my spare time is my own business and if you don’t like it, tell the DA!”
    The Hardy boys exchanged a few more remarks with the blond strong man. Their polite manner seemed to mollify him somewhat, but he remained unhelpful.
    â€œWhat do you make of him, Frank?” Joe asked in a puzzled voice as they left the bank. “Think Olafsen could be the vandal?”
    The older boy shrugged. “Maybe. He sure wasn’t going out of his way to clear himself of suspicion. But let’s not jump to any conclusions. Whatever Dad’s operative said to him last night, something tells me he must’ve rubbed Olafsen the wrong way.”
    â€œThat’s for sure.”
    After parking their car in New York, Frank and Joe took Chet to the offices of Star Comix in Rockefeller Center and introduced him to Micky Rudd. Then they excused themselves and left to keep their luncheon appointment with Vern Kelso.
    The headquarters and studios of the FBS network were located in a towering glass and steel skyscraper on the Avenue of the Americas. An express elevator whisked the Hardy boys to the executive suite on the twenty-fifth floor, where Kelso’s attractive secretary greeted them and ushered them into his private office.
    â€œSo you’re those famous young sleuths!” he said, jumping up to shake hands. “Can’t tell you how delighted I am that you two are handling this case. Just bear with me, please, while I sign a few letters, and then we’ll be off to lunch!”
    Vern Kelso was a slim, expensively dressed man in his thirties, with curly brown hair and long side-burns. As he swiftly jotted his signature on a stack of letters, he kept up a brisk flow of conversation.
    â€œUsually I have my car brought around to take me to lunch,” he remarked. “Saves time flagging a taxi. But I didn’t bother today.”
    â€œOur car’s parked not far from here; we can take that, if you like,” Frank offered.
    â€œNo, no, thanks all the same. I just live over on Sutton Place, near the UN, so there’d be no problem getting my own car. But my houseman, who also acts as chauffeur, isn’t feeling well, and besides, it’s such a nice day, I thought we might enjoy walking, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œFine with us.” Joe grinned.
    The Hardys would, indeed, have enjoyed the stroll to the restaurant several blocks from the network building. But as they made their way in the bright sunshine through throngs of tourists and New Yorkers, the boys had the disturbing feeling that they were being shadowed again.
    From their exchange of guarded glances, each guessed that the other was troubled by the same instinct. But despite their attempts to keep watch by means of shop-window reflections or cautious peeks over their shoulder, they could discover no one who seemed to be dogging their footsteps.
    Kelso’s secretary had reserved a table for them at the restaurant, which was crowded with gaily chattering, smartly dressed lunchers. The network executive explained that the place was patronized mostly by people in the television and fashion industries.
    Privately Frank and Joe thought they could pick out the latter individuals by the far-out styles in which many of them were dressed.
    Kelso regaled the boys with an entertaining if somewhat boastful account of how hard he had worked to sell “The Apeman” show to the Federated Broadcasting System.
    â€œThere’s a lot of jealousy in this business,” he confided. “Sometimes it seems as if everybody has his knife in someone else’s back. I really stuck my neck