Free A Killing in the Market by Franklin W. Dixon

a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.
    Frank, letting me know where he is, Joe thought. He groped around and found the door and knob. Then, as loud as he could, he let out a whistle of his own.
    In the darkness he heard low stumbling noises.
    "Yeeouch!" came a low, unfamiliar voice.
    "Oof!" came another. A third yell was followed immediately by a fourth.
    "I'm coming, Joe!" Frank's voice called out. In seconds Frank stumbled against his brother, and they both pushed their way through the door.
    As they slammed it behind them, another frustrated yell sounded from inside.
    "I got all four of them," Frank said. "Let's get out of here before one of them gets up."
    Pushing at top speed, they followed the cinder-block hallway to a stairwell. Flinging the door open, they hauled themselves up three flights of dingy stairs until, panting, they stumbled into the building lobby and out the door.
    The honking of horns and the roar of traffic was a welcome sound to their ears as they ran out to the crowded street.
    "How do we get to Elite Eye?" Joe shouted to Frank, close on his heels.
    "I'm not sure! Let's find a phone and call!" Frank answered.
    At the end of the block was a bank of four outdoor pay phones. One of them was empty, and Joe grabbed it. He shoved a quarter into the slot and dialed Clifton's number.
    "I'm sorry, your call requires a twenty-five-cent deposit," a recorded voice droned.
    "But I did deposit—" Joe began to shout. Then he saw the person next to him hang up and walk away from her phone. He reached over and lifted the receiver—and felt a huge hand on his shoulder.
    "Hey, pal, I was on line here!" the guy connected to the hand complained.
    Joe turned all the way around to see a group of harried people waiting for the phones. All were glowering angrily at him — especially the man-mountain who had been first.
    "Never mind, Joe! Follow me!" Frank shouted. He had just spotted a Chinese restaurant and knew a phone would be inside. They rushed inside and Joe once again dialed Clifton.
    "Friendly place, this city—" he said under his breath. "Hello, Joe Hardy for Eric Clifton, please!"
    Immediately he heard, "Yes, Joe, where are you?"
    Joe craned his neck to see the street sign outside. "Rector and Greenwich, down in the financial district. Are we near you?"
    "No. What are you doing down there?"
    "We had a run-in with Fleckman. He knew we were talking to Spears, and — "
    "Fleckman! Who told you to — I should have warned you. Stay clear of that guy. He's ruthless — especially if he needs something from you."
    "Now you tell me," Joe muttered.
    "What's that?"
    "Never mind. Listen, we've got more suspects than we know what to do with. Fleckman tried to kill us, Spears may have lied to us. And you'd better know, we found Alexandra Simone's scarf at Simone's cottage — "
    "What? Alexandra — hmm, you know, I've been having suspicions about her. Listen. Meet me in half an hour at the train station at the gate for Bayport. I think it's time we confronted Mrs. Simone—and on the way there you can tell me about your other evidence. Get a move on and stay away from Fleckman."
    "Right!" Joe slammed down the phone and said, "Follow me, Frank!"
    Without wasting a moment they barged out of the restaurant. "Okay," Joe said, looking around. "Wall Street..." He noticed a crowd of people at a nearby bus stop and asked one of them, "Excuse me, where's the Wall Street subway?"
    He didn't answer Joe. An elderly tourist couple said, "We'll let you use our guidebook if you'll point us toward the World Trade Center."
    While Frank pointed the way, Joe flipped through the downtown street maps. "It's just up this street and a couple of blocks — "
    He looked around—to find himself staring up into the surprised eyes of one of Fleckman's goons. "Thanks!" He handed the tourists their guidebook, then he and Frank raced uphill along the street.
    When they got to the top, they turned a corner to find a crowd filling the street shoulder