Bonfire Masquerade by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

sergeant, grabbed my laptop, and ran out the door.
    To save us time on the busy streets, the sergeant lent us two New Orleans Police Department bikes. It wasmuch, much easier to navigate the busy streets full of partygoers, musicians, and performers on a bike than in a car. We went ten times faster than we had on our way to the station.
    Finally we made it to the address we had been given, which turned out to be a small home in an area of town known as Tremé. It was right across the street from a large park.
    The block was quiet, with only a few costumed revelers milling around on the street, the remains of a recent parade. There was no sign of a robbery, or of a fire.
    â€œFalse alarm?” wondered George.
    â€œI guess so,” I agreed bitterly. This might have been our chance to catch them red-handed.
    Suddenly the door to the house burst open, and a stream of masked men came bursting out. They all wore very traditional costumes, like jesters with long-nosed masks. There were at least a dozen of them. In their arms and on their backs they had bags loaded down with possessions from the house. Behind them, a wave of smoke poured out of the door.
    â€œStop!” I yelled. Fat chance. They streamed off in different directions, creating a chaotic swirl that had clearly been planned ahead of time.
    I reached out and grabbed the arm of the nearest one. He yanked back, nearly pulling me off balance.
    â€œNot so fast, buddy,” yelled George, as she grabbedhim by the backpack. He pulled this way and that, but between the two of us, we had him firmly in hand.
    I reached up to pull his mask off, and he head-butted his face directly into mine. The long beak nose of his mask slammed into my forehead. An inch to either side and he would have pecked out my eye. As it was, he managed to pull his arm out of my hand. He tried to run, but George still had a death grip on his bag. He fell backward to the ground.
    Just then there was the sound of breaking glass from the house, and a scream. I looked up to see a small boy leaning out the window above the decorative balcony on the second floor.
    â€œHelp!” he screamed.
    George and I hesitated, unsure of what to do. In that moment, the thief rolled away from us. I looked at George. We could still stop him—but who knew how long that kid had before the fire reached his room. Without a word, we both ran toward the house, hoping we weren’t already too late!

CHAPTER 11
    NANCY HOT PURSUIT
    On our way out of Nicole’s Voodoo Emporium, Joe’s phone rang. From the expression on his face, I could tell instantly it was important.
    â€œThat was the New Orleans Police Department,” he said as he hung up. “There’s a robbery in progress that matches the MO of our suspects!”
    â€œWhere is it?” I asked.
    â€œNot far,” said Joe, tapping away on his phone to pull up a map. “If we run, we might be able to get there in time to stop them.”
    He took off through the crowd of costumed people. Every block in the city was a never-ending maze of shifting human bodies. Beads rained down on us from above. Live music and giant speakers assaulted our ears.
    I grabbed Joe’s hand so we wouldn’t be separated, and we wormed our way through the congested city.
    â€œLook,” said Joe, after about ten minutes. A plume of smoke was rising up from behind a house not far from where we stood.
    â€œWe’re too late!” I said.
    â€œMaybe not. Come on!”
    We pushed harder, and finally popped out of the crowd of revelers onto a street that was relatively calm. Smoke was pouring from a small wooden house in the middle of the block, and the few people on the street were standing around staring. From inside, I heard a child scream.
    â€œThere’s someone in there,” I yelled.
    We ran for the house. As we did, Frank and George burst through an upstairs window carrying two unconscious small children. They teetered on a